


Tracklist

by TheImpressario



Series: Tracklist [1]
Category: Insidious (Movies)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bickering, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Made Up Character History, Origin Story, Secret Crush, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-05-06 20:59:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 89,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5430635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheImpressario/pseuds/TheImpressario
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Specs and Tucker's first investigation goes terribly wrong, forcing them to become roommates. In the years that follow they become close friends, maturing together, all while missing multiple windows of opportunity for a romantic relationship. Pre, during, and post all three Insidious movies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Just Seven Numbers (Can Straighten Out My Life)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm planning on posting primarily full chapters, but a handful will be more bonus material, including emails between characters and news reports. This first chapter involves multiple messages in multiple mediums between Specs and Tucker, so excuse the typos, they were an intentional part of characterization. 
> 
> The title has a meaning, I swear, but it's not going to payoff until the final chapter.
> 
> I predict the longest wait time for any given chapter will be two weeks, but I'm disabled and spend my days at home, so I can pump these things out relatively fast barring writer's block.

**September, 2004**

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

  
Hey, my name is Tucker. Got a question. In your zine this mont you said you heard ghosts at Liberty Hotel in South Central, but you only published a blurry drawing of one of the hallways? Do you have any pictures or audio recording?

 

Tuck

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

No, Tuck. I do not have any pictures or audio recording(s). The illustration of Liberty Hotel was an original of mine intended to capture the essence of what I experienced on Monday the 16th at Liberty Hotel. I was there and can tell you firsthand that the Hotel is, indeed, haunted by ghosts as per my evidence presented in this month's issue of Spectral Sightings. Thank you for your interest in the zine.

 

By the way, the "blur" of the drawings is an artistic effect achieved with the use compressed charcoal and tortillions, a tapered drawing tool made of rolled paper.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

Cool. Just wondering if you had any proof.

 

PS- I know what a tortillion is. I took Art 101 last semester. I also now what graphite looks like when you accidently smudge it with your hand.

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

  
First of all, you are by no means the first person to question the existence of paranormal activity, nor my experience with it, especially in response to the information published in Spectral Sightings. It is natural for those who have not had paranormal experiences to doubt. There are so many sensationalistic, and frankly, fake publications claiming to provide evidence of life after death that most of the public has become cynical about the true mystery of the afterlife, specifically when it comes to ghosts and demons. That is precisely why I am using Spectral Sightings to educate people on what real paranormal experiences look like. Second of all, you do not need to use "PS" in an electronic mail. Post scripts, as they were called, are a remnant of the days when correspondence was handwritten, and the addressor had already completed and signed their letter before realizing they needed to add information. In the case of email, this is not necessary, because you can simply go back and add the information in a much more natural way.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

Easy buddy. No one here thinks ghosts aren't real. You just don't really have any pictures of them, so I can't tell if you're being sensationalistic and fake or not.

 

PS - Have you tried using a thermographic camera? Ghosts like to hide in the dark.

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

Unfortunately, camera equipment isn't cheap, especially in a venture like Spectral Sightings, which I do out of my own pocket. Thank you again for your interest.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

Do you have a digital camera? You can just slide up the iso and open the aperture to take bette night shots. People don't like digital pictures because they don't have negatives to prove you didn't fiddle with them, but people also don't like no pictures at all.

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

I still have my Izone camera.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

lol. Don't take pictures with an Izone. How about a recorder? Half decent mixer could take out some of the shhhhhhhh and fuzz and help get some good ghost noises. Assuming what you heard in South Central was a ghost and not just a gang bang in the alley.

 

* * *

 

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

As I mentioned, the work I do with Spectral Sightings is pro bono, and advanced paranormal equipment is expensive. Regardless, I think I would know what a gang bang sounds like.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

I should clarify, I wouldn't know what a gang bang sounds like. I, nor anyone at Spectral Sightings, has ever participated in a gang bang.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

Well if you ever wanna record some freaky shit instead of just writing about it, I have a camera and a mixer.

 

* * *

 

To: yourmom999376@juno.com

From: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

 

I hate to ask, but are you referring to capturing ghosts on camera or gangbangs? I worry about what sort of people will be contacting me now that my avatar is displayed on the Spectral Sightings "About the Editor" page.

 

Best,

"Specs", Editor in Chief of Spectral Sightings

 

* * *

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

You mean the blown out, grayscale picture of the left side of your face? I don't think you have to worry. If you let me go with you on one of your ghost adventures I'll decide in person about the gangbang.  


* * *

 

 

To: spectralsightings1402@angelfire.com

From: yourmom999376@juno.com

 

Dude it was a joke. Here's my Aim. Promise I'm not an excon.

 

drockley22

 

* * *

  


drockley20 [8:12]: boo

specs5953 [8:12]: Hey

drockley20 [8:13]: you added me. Good job.

specs5953 [8:15]: I found you on Myspace and figured out you weren’t going to murder me. You go to LACC?

drockley20 [8:15]: whoa.

specs5953 [8:15]: What?

drockley20 [8:16]: you stalked me onto myspace?

specs5953 [8:18]: You gave me your first name in your email and your last name is literally in your AIM handle. Tucker Ockley. Hardly stalking.

drockley20 [8:19]: still

drockley20 [8:19]: dude

drockley20 [8:19]: you thought I was the scary one

drockley20 [8:24]: yeah i go to lacc. you?

specs5953 [8:25]: Yes. I’m studying art.

drockley20 [8:26]: i took a few art classes.

specs5953 [8:28]: Are you a photography major?

drockley20 [8:29]: undeclared. I may have seen you around.

drockley20 [8:29]: not that i would know since i only know what the side of your face looks like.

drockley20 [8:32]: the camera stuff is a hobby

specs5953 [8:33]: Expensive hobby

drockley20 [8:34]: not when you yardsale

specs5953 [8:35]: Can’t be very good cameras in that case

drockley20 [8:36]: dont need them to be good. jst easy to fiddle with, to make them pick up ghosts

specs5953 [8:36]: Have you taken a picture of a ghost?

drockley20 [8:37]: no

drockley20 [8:37]: i want to

specs5953 [8:38]: You have to talk to them. To draw them out.

drockley20 [8:38]: fuck that

specs5953 [8:39]: What? Why?

drockley20 [8:40]: because fuuuuck that

drockley20 [8:42]: i do have audio though

specs5953 [8:42]: Really? From where?

drockley20 [8:45]: this place

drockley20 [8:46]: you should come write about it

drockley20 [8:46]: i’ll let you publish my pictures

specs5953 [8:47]: I don’t see what’s in it for me

drockley20 [8:49]: uh. pictures. in your zine

drockley20 [8:49]: actual proof

specs5953 [8:53]: What I publish is proof

drockley20 [8:53]: not really

specs5953 [8:53] Yeah, really.

drockley20 [8:54]: nah, but whatever

specs5953 [8:58]: I’ll think about it

....

specs5953 [10:33]: Are you awake?

drockley20 [10:36]: define awake

specs5953 [10:36] Awake enough to type

drockley20 [10:40]: sure

specs5953 [10:41]: I might be interested in doing a piece on this "place" you want to record at.

specs5953 [10:41]: That's not a guarantee that I'll use your pictures, however.

drockley20 [10:42]: cool

specs5953 [10:43]: So where is this place? I'll need proof that it's haunted before I'm willing to commit. Spectral Sightings has a lot of leads at the moment, and we need to be selective about what content goes into the zine.

drockley20 [10:45]: is that why you're contacting a dude on aim about a haunted apartment?

specs5953 [10:46]: So it's an apartment?

drockley20 [10:46]: yep

specs5953 [10:47]: Where did you get this information?

drockley20 [10:48]: myself. saw some shit.

specs5953 [10:50]: So you’ve been there yourself already

drockley20 [10:51]: told you I had recordings

specs5953 [10:53]: Do you mind if I listen to them first? To determine whether they sound legitimate. It would give your case precedence over my other leads.

drockley20 [10:53]: lol

drockley20 [10:53]: sure.

drockley20 [11:01]: spookyshit2.mp3

specs5953 [11:07]: Whoa

drockley20 [11:09]: yeah

specs5953 [11:10]: If we're going to do this, I prefer to meet my cases in a public place first, to verify your identity and intentions.

drockley20 [11:11]: i'm not going to kill you

specs5953 [11:13]: I'm not so sure about that

drockley20 [11:14]: it's whatever.

specs5953 [11:14]: Actually it's the most integral part of the investigation process

drockley20 [11:15]: i wouldve thought that catching the ghosts was the integral part

specs5953 [11:17]: No one at Spectral Sightings "catches" ghosts. We simply investigate them.

drockley20 [11:18]: don't you write SS by yourself?

specs5953 [11:20]: At the moment, yes. But I have a number of contacts in affiliation with the zine.

drockley20 [11:23]: gotcha

drockley20 [11:23]: taste of puebla?

specs5953 [11:24]: What?

drockley20 [11:26]: do you want to get taste of puebla?

drockley20 [11:26]: when we meet in public.

specs5953 [11:28]: I've never been there.

drockley20 [11:31]: really?

drockley20 [11:31]: jesus

drockley20 [11:32]:  575-5959

drockley20 [11:33]: that's my phone number

specs5953 [11:34]: Thanks

drockley20 [11:34]: so we can set up the puebla thing

specs5953 [11:35]: Yes I understand what it's for

 

 

From:5788888

9/17/04 (2:47)

This is Specs from Spectral Sightings. Tucker?

 

From: Tucker

9/17/04 (2:51)

yeup

 

From: 5788888

9/17/04 (2:54)

This is my number if you'd like to save it. You can call me Specs.

 

From: Tucker

9/17/04 (3:01)

wouldnt call you anything else

 

From: Speckles

9/17/04 (3:03)

Great. Thanks.

 

From: Tucker

9/18/04 (4:27)

busy tommorrow?

 

From: Speckles

9/18/04 (4:31)

That depends. What time?

 

From: Tucker

9/18/04 (4:35)

lunch time

 

From: Speckles

9/18/04 (4:37)

At Taste of Puebla? I think that will work for me. I'll add you to the agenda.

 

From: Tucker

9/18/04 (4:48)

im honored

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (12:21)

I'm here. I'll wait before I order.

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (12:49)

Still waiting.

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (1:07)

I'm sure you're in traffic. I'll order.

 

From: Tucker

9/19/04 (1:22)

oh sorry. i was asleep. I said lunch time

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (1:24)

Yeah. Lunch is between 12 and 1.

 

From: Tucker

9/19/04 (1:34)

I usually sleep in til 1, so 1 is breakfast and 3 is lunch.

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (1:36)

Maybe we'll do this another day. I have other clients to meet.

 

From: Tucker

9/19/04 (1:41)

stay there. i live around the corner.

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (1:56)

Awfully big corner

 

From: Tucker

9/19/04 (1:59)

sorry, had to feed my neighbor's cat. omw

 

From: Speckles

9/19/04 (2:01)

You're a saint

  



	2. I Can Hear Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs and Tucker make their initial awkward introductions, get friendly over a movie, and freak the fuck out about a ghost.

**September, 2004**

Specs responded to the next jingle of the doorbell like the pavlovian dog he had become in the last hour and a half. Every time someone entered Taste of Puebla, his eyes would shoot up, searching for the scruffy man he’d found on Myspace. He brought his laptop and a notebook to work on a new article, “The Tenability of Verbal Accounts” for the next issue of Spectral Sightings, but between the distracting doorbell and the soda parlor soundtrack (which, he thought, had nothing to do with Puebla, unless they listened the Supremes more than he realized), he struggled to write anything. The restaurant was, quite literally, a hole in the wall, with four tables wrapped around to the side of the entrance. It was decorated in party store crepe ribbon and knick knacks from the homeland. Not exactly Specs’ style, but the quesadillas were good.

“Be My Baby” by the Ronnettes played while he twirled a #2 pencil in his fingers, having officially crossed from boredom to irritation. The next door jingle would be the last, he decided, ready to tell this Tucker guy off. The generally insulting tone of his messages was enough, but his lack of concern for Specs’ time was pushing the limit, and his buttons. He was used to insults and condescending questions about his experiences with ghosts. They were his creative fuel, honestly. He’d weathered snide emails from readers and increasingly blunt requests from his family to stop wasting his life, get a real job, and find a girlfriend. In their eyes, what started as a somewhat cute concern that there were ghosts in his room when he was a boy (there had been) had developed into an embarrassing obsession, but after a certain point their concerns only galvanized his desire to raise awareness. He knew what he saw and, occasionally, what he’d been thrown around by.

Tucker was, of course, different, in that he didn’t doubt the ghosts at all. No, instead of insulting the idea that ghosts existed, he just insulted Specs’ methods for proving they did. He thought he could do better. And it was this fact which upset Specs more and made him want to meet Tucker all the same. He could never pass up an opportunity to talk to another believer. It was a rush to share experiences; a close second to actually having them. Specs’ stated purpose for Spectral Sightings was to help people who were afraid, but he had to admit that the adrenaline rush of being scared was a side benefit for him. Despite the clean cut appearance he worked to maintain, he was a bit of a junkie.

The next and final doorbell jingle produced what Specs was waiting for. Somewhere roughly above six feet, bearded and sporting weather inappropriate purple hoodie and combat boots, Specs didn’t have to question whether Tucker matched the profile. He had a slightly hunched, relaxed body language, as if he hadn’t just turned up an hour late for a meeting. But all Specs’ intentions of telling him off washed away upon seeing him in person. A slight blush raised to his cheeks at the thought of it. Imagining being rude to people was one thing, but doing it was almost impossible. He cursed himself for his politeness.

Tucker, on the other hand, had no conflicts about his intentions. He pinned Specs’ personality as more uptight than his own right away. Not that he minded, of course. You could say he had a type. His expectations were confirmed when he saw Specs, yet he was also pleasantly surprised. Despite the awkward body language, Specs had a certain confidence, as if he fully accepted and embodied the awkward person he was. Tucker also noted that the right side of his face was just as nice as the left side.

Tucker offered a dudely chin raise, while Specs got out of his seat entirely to shake his hand.

“Specs, Spectral Sightings. Hi. You must be Tucker.”

“Sup.”

Specs offered a nervous laugh. “I guess you can go ahead and order.”

“Nah, I just had breakfast. Kinda full.”

The corners of Specs’ mouth twitched in an effort to maintain a smile, but he stood way and let Tucker walk past him over to the table. Tucker unloaded a metallic audio recorder from the messenger bag over his shoulder and handed it to Specs. “I figured you’d want to hear more.”

Right to business. Well, Specs liked that about him. Excitement took over. He unrolled a pair of earbuds plugged into the recorder, paused for a moment to check them for earwax, then put them in while Tucker took the recorder and clicked through to a file. A track with a soft fuzz played. Specs could hear breathing.

“The breathing is me. Pay attention at 32 seconds.”

Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder with Specs, glancing back and forth between the screen and the other man’s face, looking for a reaction. At the thirty second mark a strange warping altered the sound of Tucker’s breathing, followed by what sounded like a voice. It was soft, definitely female, whispering something. There was a slight crack to the voice, a strong “k” or “ch” sound in a word and then the warping ended, returning back to Tucker’s now slightly faster breathing.

Specs looked up at Tucker. “What did she say?”

Tucker held a finger up, signaling to wait. Another warp started, and there was a clatter, followed by a shaky “Holy shit” from Tucker through the device. He clicked pause. “She knocked a chair over.”

Specs couldn’t help but grin. It was always difficult to separate the real from the fake when it came to recordings, but years of interest in the field had given him keen instincts on the matter. “Do you know what she said?”

"She said ‘Tucker.’"

Specs relished a familiar tingle of fear down his spine. He had experienced his share of indifferent bumps in the night and shimmers down hallways, but a ghost contacting a living soul directly, by name- that had only happened to him once before. He took the recorder from Tucker’s hand and rewound the audio to the 32 second mark, listening again and again to the eery voice as he sat down. Tucker, smirking, sat across from him.

“Where did this happen? How, when? It’s so…” Specs stuttered.

“Couple years ago I started hearing noises when I was trying to sleep.” Tucker dug into his bag and produced a gum wrapper. “Things moving around, stuff like that. My dad probably thought I was crazy.” He offered a toothy grin. “Not that he’d be wrong, but, I figured I would try to record it to prove I wasn’t just hearing things. So I bought a recorder, P700, good quality, good heft, aluminum casing-”

“I’m not sure I need to know the model of recorder you used.” Specs spoke over him.Tucker stopped and stared at him for a moment before removing a piece of chewed gum from the wrapper and flicking it into his mouth.

“Well, the P700 is synonymous with noise reduction, so it’s actually really important, but I understand if that’s too technical for you.” Specs didn’t hide his disgust. “Anyway, at first I couldn’t get it to work past all that warping. I would hear it in real life, but the recorder would just make that sound.”

“Maybe not the best at noise reduction then.”

"Actually it is. But picking up ghosts doesn’t work that way, I found out.” Tucker gestured for Specs to hand him back the recorder. He spat the gum back out into his hand and pressed it into the microphone of the recorder, then fit the foil gum wrapper around it. “You have to get creative.”

Specs looked less impressed than Tucker anticipated. “Ok McGyver. You record ghosts with bubble gum.”

“Specifically, I recorded one last night, with this exact piece of gum, in my apartment.”

"So it's your apartment that's haunted?"

“Not my apartment. Me. This ghost followed me from my dad’s house, to my first dorm room, to my friend’s couch in Florence, to the apartment I have now.”

"Why are you just contacting someone about it now, if it's been going on for years?"

"Because now it's angry." Tucker and Specs instinctively leaned their heads in closer, and Tucker's voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. "For the first few years she was fine. I'd see someone sitting in a chair out of the corner of my eye, then look back and she'd be gone. Sometimes I would fall asleep without a blanket, then wake up later with one over me, even though my door was locked. Sometimes I'd hear humming." Tucker paused for moment, as if he almost said too much. "It was actually kind of nice."

"But now she's throwing chairs."

"I don't think she likes my new place."

Tucker noticed that Specs was no longer pretending to be the editor of a serious magazine with multiple leads and appointments that day. He suggested they stake out the apartment that very night to make contact. He planned feverishly, a boyish glint in his eye, as if they were school children planning to build a fort in the woods. They would use x equipment, take turns sleeping at y and z times, and did Tucker have anything to make for breakfast...? Tucker congratulated himself on how quickly he convinced this guy to spend the night. It was all business, of course, but it still beat his old record. For moment it occurred to him that if he were an ex con looking for murder victims online he had found the easiest target alive, and somewhere in the back of his head he made a note to warn Specs to be more careful in the future- after tonight.

Two hours and two burritos later, they reconvened at Tucker's apartment, Specs having decided to start the process as early as possible to perform the necessary set up. Tucker wasn't sure what that involved, especially considering Specs spent the first few minutes in his apartment at turns gushing over his action figures and reprimanding his untidiness. "The ghost is probably just begging you to wash the dishes." He muttered at one point. Tucker offered the brief tour. There was the living room, which doubled as a large laundry basket, a small kitchen that smelled like waffles, a bathroom and/or closet with a toilet in it, and the bedroom, which also, curiously, smelled like waffles. Specs rolled his eyes at the sight of a large water bed in the middle of the room.

"This is where most of the activity happens." Tucker said.

"I'm sure."

"I meant paranormal activity." Tucker took two large steps over a pile of wires and electronics that Specs didn't recognize and piled a few of them onto the bed. "I have two primary cameras and a still camera outfitted to pick up low frequency wavelengths and take shots when there are significant changes in heat. Plus the recorder, which you saw and..." He stood up straight and looked around on the floor for something. "A sensor...which...ah." He dug out something that looked like a small metal detector on an extendable pole. "I've already run this over the wiring to make sure it wasn't faulty. Electricity leaks into the air, causes changes in energy sometimes. I can run it again if you want me to prove I'm not nuts."

Specs hadn't really considered leaking electricity before. "Oh, right, well I would normally do that myself but I'm sure you've done your due diligence."

Tucker scoffed laughed openly at Specs' bullshit and threw the sensor onto the bed. "So, I'll set up my end if you want to do whatever you do."

"Well, I take care of things on the research end: interviews, reading old documents, that sort of thing. You're being haunted, but the new location seems to have upset the spirit, so I figure there might have been something that happened here. When you get the chance I'll have to ask you a few questions." Specs stood in the door uncomfortably for a moment. "Do you have a phone number for a landlord?"

"Slumlord's on the fridge."

Specs' interview with the landlord, Pete, was brief and fruitless. Pete was of uncertain Scandinavian descent, judging by the accent, and of uncertain affiliation with the mob, judging by his avoidance of direct questions about his acquisition of the building or any notable documents on file. Specs was just about through with him when Tucker began setting up a camera in the living room, pointing it down the hall. "I hear footsteps outside the door sometimes." He explained through a hopefully fresh piece of gum.

"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions now?"

"Like what?" Tucker didn't break concentration from the dials on his camera.

"Well, typically I like to establish whether you or a family member has had a history of mental illness." He said, fidgeting. Tucker paused what he was doing just long enough for Specs to notice.

"Kind of rude, man. Do you ask everyone that?" Tucker deflected.

"No no, I don't mean to be, but...it's important to consider all the variables. I assume I'm here because you want me to help with a problem, and with that assumption comes the understanding that I have to establish the legitimacy of your claims. It's uncomfortable, but, so is being haunted I suppose." Specs fumbled through his Spectral Sightings official answer to the inevitable 'how dare you' about his questions. "I apologize if it makes you uncomfortable."

Tucker chuckled. "You came over my house without telling anyone _before_ you established my sanity?"

"Yeah. Still working out the kinks of my process." Tucker noted another falter in Specs' attempts to keep up appearances. He was being open with him. How cute.

"Want a Hot Pocket?"

Specs and Tucker settled in and waited for nightfall over pepperoni Hot Pockets and a bootleg copy of Saw. Tucker learned that Specs was a 'talk during the movie' person, as Specs started to theorize what potential sequels might contain. If Tucker hadn't seen the movie three times already he would have been annoyed, but at this point he was happy to indulge, and halfway through the movie they had paused to work out the details of their hypothetical seventh film. Specs had just pulled out his sketchbook to draw the schematic for a particularly gruesome death trap when they heard a clatter down the hall.

"Shit." They muttered. Specs stood up first to peer around the corner. "Tell me your neighbor's cat is in here."

"It came from the bedroom." They looked at each other, one expecting the other to go first. Specs finally turned back to continue looking down the hall. It was dark. He motioned for the flashlight in his bag, and Tucker happily handed it to him. The moment he clicked it on there was another slamming sound from the bedroom.

"C'mon." If they were doing this, they were doing it together. Tucker huffed and hurried to Specs' side, and together they edged their way down the hallway to the bedroom door, flicking on light switches as they went. Even grown men knew that ghosts were less scary with the lights on. "Did you leave the light on in there?" Specs asked.

"Nope." The thought of reaching into the room with the noises to turn the light switch made Specs shudder, but he wasn't going to look like an amateur in front of Tucker. He cracked his knuckles and turned the doorknob. The room was still. A flashlight beam into the center revealed something horrifying, however. All of Tucker's electronic equipment and clothes that had once decorated the floor were pushed to the sides of the room, leaving the room clear in the middle

"I didn't do that." Tucker said. Given his lack of cleaning anywhere else, Specs was inclined to believe him. Feeling somewhat safe in the silence, he flicked on the light and stepped into the room.

“Maybe the ghost really did just want you to clean.” He joked. That’s when he heard the music. Down the hall, playing from Tucker’s gratuitous sound system, came the unmistakable drum beat of “Be my Baby” by the Ronettes. “I didn’t peg you for an oldies kind of guy.”

“I’m not.” Tucker said in a tone that was either frightened or insulted by the suggestion. He looked back out the door into the living room to see an old cassette spinning in his tape player.

Specs was thoroughly creeped out, but the skeptic -or paranoid victim- in him was at least able to rationalize what had happened so far. Tucker could have cleaned his room while he was on the phone with Pete. He could have set the tape up to play. He obviously knew how to tweak electronics. And the fact that it was the same song they heard at Taste of Puebla? Weird, but he was obviously a regular there, so he probably knew the owner. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried to trick him. He almost preferred being attacked by a malevolent entity than being made fun of by a living person.

Then again, malevolent entities weren’t so great either, and Specs very quickly found himself wishing this had only been a joke. He would later swear he heard it just over his shoulder - a female voice, firm, but not aggressive, yelled, “No. Get out. Now!”

Specs looked back at Tucker as if to ask if he had heard it too, but Tucker was looking over his own shoulder. With no intention of disobeying the order, Specs turned and grabbed Tucker by the sleeve to lead him out down the hallway.

“My camera.” Tucker pulled away and made for the door the moment it swung shut with force, as if it had been slammed from the other side. He caught the brunt of it in the face. When he recoiled back, Specs saw blood already flowing from his nose. Blood was one of his lines that, when crossed, meant it was time to leave an investigation. Tucker still insisted on collecting the camera in the living room and a handful of bugs he had wired the house with. Specs stood by the door, sketchbook in hand, tapping his foot as if they were late for church rather than fleeing the clutches of an angry ghost.

"Do you really have to?" He asked impatiently.

“Do I really have to save the last of my one of a kind equipment?” Tucker repeated like it was a stupid question. He ripped out a wire that was caulked up the corner of his living room wall, working slowly and diligently, like a man with nowhere to be. With a final tug, he pulled the wire out, and suddenly the apartment went dark. “Be my Baby” cut out, leaving only the sound of Tucker’s voice saying, “Mom?”

"This is what happens when you decide to be an amateur electrician."

"That wire was on the outside, it had nothing to do with..."

"Nothing to-"

"Shh! Listen."

"I don't-"

"Shh!"

Specs listened. At first it was faint. There was a slow, rhythmic scratching sound coming from the other side of the wall adjacent to the bedroom.

"Sounds like you have squirrels."

"I had my nose caved in by a ghost and you think it's squirrels?"

"Well this place is kind of a shit hole, so it's not entirely unreasonable."

"Do you talk to all your clients this way?"

"You don't count as one anymore."

The lights flickered back up. Specs started slightly at the sight of Tucker’s bloody face before he remembered what had happened. The sound system kicked back up and continued playing “Be My Baby”, this time faster and louder than before. Tucker plugged his ears and made to turn it off, but Specs grabbed him and pointed. On the wall adjacent to the bedroom were a series of long, bloody scratch marks that looked like they had been made by clawed hands.

"Still think it's squirrels, asshole?" Tucker yelled over his own plugged ears. He crossed the room and snapped the sound system off.

"Those scratches aren't from this side." Specs said. Specs had spent his childhood sleeping with the lights on and hiding under blankets in mortal fear of the ghosts and demons his parents dismissed. By the time he was in his teens, his fears had led to full blown insomnia, and he determined to desensitize himself to everything that scared him. It started with binge watching horror movies, which at first made things worse, but slowly he became less afraid. At some point, however, the scales had tipped from fear into obsession, and Specs became possessed by an insatiable sense of curiosity. Now that he was older, experience and reason would often temper his impulses, but occasionally the taste for a good paranormal mystery was too sweet for him to ignore, regardless of how bloody the claws that had created it. It was this impulse which made him walk up to the scratches on the wall and run his fingers down them, searching for signs of how they were made. "These were made from inside the wall."

The sound system suddenly sputtered to life again, this time even faster and louder. The tape whistled and smoked on the reels. Tucker clicked it off again, cringing at the sound, but the tape continued to play whether the button was down or not. The wiring in the back began to spark. Tucker pulled the plug and flinched as sparks popped out of the socket. "Be My Baby" played on.

If their fear of ghosts wasn't healthy enough, their fear of fire was.The boys attempted to run for the door, but it slammed shut again. Tucker jiggled the handle.

"It's stuck."

"Hit it."

Tucker slammed his shoulder into the door along the frame, but despite the general shitiness of his apartment the front door was unfortunately well constructed. Specs took this failure to mean Tucker was not as strong as he looked and opted to try himself, which left him leaning against the door in agony as he held his shoulder, and the pair were now a nose and an arm down in their fight. To make matters worse, the scratching sound returned, only now it was one long, steady tear that crept up the wall and across the ceiling toward them. Specs found himself unconsciously digging his fingernails into Tucker's arm he was holding on to him so tight. Then, with a sudden force, the door behind them opened and they fell through into the hallway. The female voice they heard before repeated, "Leave now!" and the door slammed shut behind them again.

Fire alarms started chirping throughout the apartment building as Specs and Tucker made their descent to the ground floor and out to Spec's car. They could still hear "Be My Baby" from four floors down as they drove away.


	3. Leaving Here

CREWS BATTLE MASSIVE FIRE IN DOWNTOWN LA

 

LOS ANGELES (September 14)-  More than 100 firefighters from over seven different stations battled a massive building fire downtown last night – a blaze that some are linking to the notorious 1984 murder of mafia associate Otis Brown.

 

The fire engulfed a towering residential project, raining ash on much of downtown Los Angeles and lighting the predawn sky a smoky orange.

 

It took 100 firefighters an hour and a half to put out the fire that broke out in the Centennial apartment complex about 11:20 a.m. Monday. The development, a six-story building on the corner of Broadway and Anaheim, was completely destroyed.

The complex was home to some 45 families, all of whom escaped thanks to the alarm system in the building. Several upper-floor residents were escorted to area hospitals for treatment of smoke inhalation.

 

Those on the scene are now questioning the origins of the fire. Capt. Oscar Landon said blazes of this magnitude are always treated as criminal fires, but added "it's very rare for the entire building to be engulfed so quickly.”

 

"There may have been some foul play," he said.

 

Arson investigators were waiting until it was safe to enter the wreckage, along with dogs trained to sniff out fuels or other accelerants. This morning federal investigators with Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives boarded a fire crane to peer down into the smoldering mess.

 

“At this point we can’t say what caused the fire,” John Cenova, chief ATF officer in Los Angeles, said. “But the building was old and hadn’t been inspected in years. It’s easy to see why it went up like kindling.”

 

Officials said they also planned to examine the building records and financial documents. The owner of the property could not be reached for an interview.

 

Some residents are proposing their own theories for how and why the building was engulfed so quickly late last evening.

 

“This is mafia business. This place was some kind of front for them.” Claimed one resident, who asked to remain anonymous. “Otis Brown was murdered here. They do shady deals here. It’s a cover up.”

 

Headlines exploded in the summer of 1984 when low level associate Otis Brown was murdered in the Centennial apartment complex. Reports from the case state that Brown was stabbed 6 times before he was placed in the walls of a fourth floor unit that was under construction at the time.

 

Brown’s body was exhumed three days later when construction workers smelled what they thought was a dead animal and removed the drywall. Behind the wall was a horrific scene: not only had Brown been buried behind the wall, but a series of scratch marks revealed that he had been alive for several hours attempting to escape his tomb. No arrests were made, and after several months the trail went cold.

 

Police chief Eric Bonawitz warned against associations between the Brown murder and last night’s fire.

 

“We have no reason to suspect these two are connected.” He stated.

 

Other residents have even more unique theories. Tucker Ockley, a resident of one of Centennial’s fourth floor units, was discharged from the hospital with a broken nose after last night’s turmoil. He blames malevolent forces for his injury, and the fire.

“It was a pretty classic case of a vengeful ghost. He slammed a door in my face right before the place went up.” Ockley stated.

 

Steven Kowalski, paranormal investigator and self-proclaimed editor-in-chief of the “ezine” Spectral Sightings reaffirmed the theory.

 

“It’s obvious to me that there was a presence in Tucker’s apartment last night. I’ve never seen such a malevolent force... you’ll be able to read more about it in my next issue.”

 

Ghost stories aside, the fire of Centennial apartment complex will no doubt continue to haunt its former residents, who are now without a home, with no one to answer for last night’s tragedy.


	4. Let's Stay Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs delays the inevitable while Tucker makes himself a little too at home. This chapter is book-ended with waffles.

September, 2004

 

“They didn’t include the url I gave them...” Specs muttered, tossing a copy of the LA Times onto the counter. He was currently running on a combination of espresso and residual adrenaline. While Tucker snored on his pull-out couch, Specs had already cleaned his apartment, gone grocery shopping, picked up a copy of the Times, made waffles, watched the waffles get cold, and written a good portion of what he called a “case summary” of the previous night’s events. He hadn’t had a lot of slumber parties when he was a boy -part of his father’s increasingly ironic quest to keep him straight- but he was distinctly reminded of the awkward feeling of waiting for a guest to wake up.

 

After fleeing the inferno apartment complex the night before, Specs ignored Tucker’s Monty Python references and insisted on taking him to the emergency room, where they waited two hours behind a line of smoke-inhalation victims. When they were finally brought back, nurses and doctors eyed them suspiciously as they explained how they had acquired their respective injuries. Tucker’s broken nose was bandaged and medicated. Specs was discharged with prescription strength Motrin and a pamphlet about domestic violence.

 

Specs idly flipped one of the waffles he had made for his unexpected guest. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for the guy. They could see the smoldering, ashy remains of Tucker’s apartment complex from the overpass on their way home the night before. Tucker had held his remaining camera like a baby. He laughed ruefully when Specs asked if he had any insurance.

 

“I can drive you somewhere...if you need to stay with your parents or something.”

 

“Feel like driving to Oklahoma tonight?” Tucker broke his gaze from the passenger window to look over at Specs. “Didn’t think so.”

 

Specs was the sort of man who both valued and loathed his solitude. He had a particular way of doing things, a particular way of spending his time, and a particular night-oriented schedule that was largely incompatible with others. No one needed to remind him -though they frequently did- that his dedication to paranormal investigation was, in a word, obsessive. He had long reconciled himself to the fact that what he loved doing was probably the thing that would keep him alone, and there was a certain peace in his solitary, monk-like existence. Days were spent in art classes, where he compensated for his average abilities with a combination of passion and pedantry, but nights were spent applying art to the craft that truly mattered: unraveling mysteries of the beyond in the next issue of Spectral Sightings. Being a workaholic left little room for a social life. He found a way to convince himself that he was a martyr for the cause and that the small following of “believers” the zine had amassed constituted friendships. But there was still a nagging part of him that nagged louder as he got older, reminding him that it all meant nothing if there was no one to share it with.

 

It was that nagging voice that began to well up in him as he found himself driving Tucker back to his house in Glendale. He stifled it as he set up the pull out couch. He ignored it when he got blankets from the closet. He kept it down all morning while he waited for Tucker to wake up. The anxiety of knowing he was about to say something stupid was overwhelming. He couldn’t exactly throw the guy out onto the street. Then again, Tucker was infuriating. In the course of 24 hours he proven himself to be a bossy, juvenile smart aleck with questionable eating habits. Specs was lonely, but he wasn’t sure if he was desperate yet.

 

Tucker was an unrepentant hot mess when he woke up. He didn’t have the social graces, or the coherence, to properly ask for a shower, so he presumed to let himself in to Specs’ bathroom as he pleased. The scales tipped in favor of telling Tucker to get lost. Specs paced the floor as he prepared to tell him off, but he was immediately deflated when Tucker finally returned to the kitchen. He blushed. Tucker looked like a large wet dog, with damp hair dripping in his eyes and nothing but his jeans and a “Bride of the Monster” t-shirt on. The scales began to tip back.

 

“Smells like waffles.” Tucker scratched his stomach and yawned. Charming.

 

“Yeah, I uh, I made breakfast… couple hours ago.” Specs waved a hand at the plate of remaining waffles. “You want me to heat them up?”

 

“Nope.” Tucker went over and picked up the plate, then proceeded to open drawers until he found a fork. He unloaded about half a bottle of maple syrup onto his cold waffles and proceeded to eat them while leaning on the counter. He was already making himself at home, that was for sure. Specs watched him uncomfortably for a minute. He wasn’t quite ready to go kicking anyone out yet. Delaying the inevitable decision would have to be the next best thing.

 

“We made the news.” He announced, waving the paper like a banner. “That reporter we talked to last night quoted us both in his article.”

 

Tucker snatched the paper and skimmed to article. The picture of the blaze made him queasy, though not enough so to keep him from munching on his waffles as he read. It wasn’t much, but that apartment was his first real home, cobbled together with every free piece of craigslist furniture he could find. The only real “valuables” were his action figures, and even that was a small collection. He had parted with some of his favorites just to pay rent. Then there were the cameras. The EMF reader. The laser grid scope. All of it tweaked or home made entirely. All of it now a melted mess under rubble.

 

“Asshole.”

 

“What?” Specs was caught off guard.

 

“The reporter.” Tucker said. “He’s mocking us.”

 

“Yeah, I’m used to that part.” Specs held out his hand for the paper and Tucker handed him his dirty dish. “But he’s on to something. I did a little research this morning. Turns out Otis Brown was murdered in your apartment. I think we’ve found our angry ghost.”

 

“Great. Why did Otis Brown sound like a chick?”

 

“Better question. Would Otis Brown try to help us?” Specs gestured for Tucker to follow him to the dining table, which was covered in notes and old articles Specs had printed concerning Otis Brown’s murder. Tucker eyed the eager little man with amusement. He’d probably worked three times as hard as the reporter in the same span of time. “Otis Brown wasn’t an innocent man himself. He got a fifteen year sentence for his involvement in the mafia down to one when he snitched on a few of his contacts. That’s why they killed him, I figure, when he got out of jail. So… he’s angry, trapped somewhere between here and whatever’s out there, then you move in and start noticing him. As for the female voice. I think we had an entirely different ghost on our hands. The one that followed you. She was warning you to leave. Is there anyone you can think of that might be out there, protecting you?”

 

Tucker had a special talent for deflecting uncomfortable questions. Though it manifested itself in a combination of rudeness and social awkwardness, the payoff of not having to talk about his personal business was worth whoever it alienated. This time, however, he didn’t have to look for an excuse. His cell phone rang in the knick of time. “S’cuse me.” He said, holding up a finger as he flipped his phone open.

 

“Hey.” There was a long pause. Specs pretended to sift through his research while he listened to a male voice on the other end of the line. It went on for a while before Tucker could speak again. “Yeah, I’m fine. No. I’m... staying at a friend’s house.” Another pause followed. Specs hadn’t kicked him out yet, but he felt a pang of guilt when Tucker said ‘friend’, even if it was intended as a lie. Tucker walked further away and started to speak more quietly. “You don’t have to do that. Seriously. Don’t send anything, I’m fine. I’ll sell the bike or something.” As he paced Specs could see Tucker’s face morph to a sad smile. “Yeah, you too... Bye.”

 

An awkward pause ensued as the two men pretended to be preoccupied with their distractions. Specs sighed. Here was the part where he said something stupid.

 

“I think this story will be good in the zine. I could use some-” His ego did somersaults as it attempted to reconcile what was about to come out of his mouth. “some evidence. If you want to stick around, maybe set up shop in the garage so we can keep working on the case…”

 

“I don’t know. I have a lot of other leads at the moment. I need to be selective about where I allow my content to be published.” Tucker snatched his camera up off the pull out couch. “Wouldn’t want to be associated with any sensationalistic news sources, you know?”

 

“If you have any footage on there, we have to share it, people need to know.” Specs stepped closer. Tucker might very well hold the evidence Specs needed to prove he wasn’t insane. “It’s unethical to hold such an important discovery from the public eye. That’s what online reporting is all about. Bringing the truth to the people. Honest journalism, the stuff that empowers people to-”

 

“Easy buddy.” Tucker maintained his poker face despite every urge to laugh. “I’m interested in sharing. I just need to know it’s worth my while. This garage. Does it have tools, a workbench?”

 

“Yeah. I mean, basic tools.”

 

“I’d have to stay here a while, you know, to focus on the case and everything. The couch was pretty comfy.”

 

“I can’t have you sleeping on my couch until mid-afternoon. If my parents came over..”

 

“I noticed there was a second bedroom.”

 

“Not really a bedroom, per se. It’s my office. I work from home. On Spectral Sightings. So… the office is sort of like commercial space, it can’t be-”

 

“Would your parents prefer to show up and find me in your bed, instead of on the couch?”

 

Specs nearly choked on air. The familiar twinge of shame that came with being mocked, not to mention the horror of his parents finding a man in his apartment, let alone his bed, caused him a lengthy pause.

 

“You know, I’m the one offering you a place to stay.” Indignance was the only thing that could snap him out of his haze. Why exactly was this asshole bartering with him?

 

“And I’m offering some valuable footage. And my help. The evidence we talked about. So we both have something to offer.”

 

“So, I get to make some demands of my own.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

Specs paused. “Ok, well, for one, my parents come over every Tuesday for dinner. They pay the rent on this place, so I don’t want them to know I have a hobo living with me. If you wouldn’t mind making that your night to run to the laundromat or something, presuming you wash your clothes.”

 

“Considering all of my clothes are in a steamy pile of ash downtown, that’ll be an awfully short trip to the laundromat, but I’ll eat out on Tuesday.”

 

“Right. Fine. We’ll need to be fair about food. Yours is yours, mine is mine. I have a label maker if necessary. We might need to share things like milk and eggs, just because it’s more economical to buy those things in larger sizes, but-”

 

“I’m sure we can work that out later. How about where I’m sleeping?”

 

“The garage has heat and air.”

 

“Oh, cozy, I’ll put a sleeping bag in the back of your station wagon.”

 

“I can park on the street and get you a futon.”

 

“What about my bike?”

 

“I’m sure you could chain it to the fence.”

 

“No, my bike. Motorcycle. I want to park that in the garage.”

 

Specs’ mind wandered again briefly. The image of Tucker on a motorcycle was something to dwell on, though the general dangerousness of a motorcycle was terrifying. In the time they spent bartering he realized they had gravitated closer to each other, or perhaps Tucker had just come closer, and he was now feeling either sufficiently distracted or intimidated.

“That...would be fine.”

 

“Motorcycle and I live in the garage, buy my own food, hide from the parents on Tuesday.”

 

“And I’ll accept your work on Spectral Sightings as payment in exchange for room and board.”

 

Tucker smiled. It was a toothy and impish smile that Specs couldn’t help but be suspicious of, but a certain relief came over him as they shook on their agreement. He had a roommate. Another flesh and blood human being to talk to. Another believer. Spectral Sightings’ first employee. Demonstrably a slob, annoying and clearly self-interested, but easy on the eyes as far as Specs’ tastes usually went. Not that he wouldn’t be professional. It would be entirely professional.

 

“So. Show me what you got.”

 

Tucker flipped the screen of his camera open and tapped the on button. The last frame recorded popped up: a shot of the hallway just before Tucker had clicked the camera off. He rewound, and a series of shots of Tucker and Specs running around the apartment looped backward, revealing their madcap night in amusingly fast speeds. Tucker stopped the camera just as it reached the moment when the door slammed in his face. From the perspective of the camera, it simply looked as if another person had slammed the door. The rest of the tape played out much the same: the lights flickering, wall scratching, and stereo exploding happened out of frame, and all that could be heard were their voices. It was only when Tucker lifted the camera off the tripod to run for the door that something remotely paranormal showed up. Though poorly lit and shaky, the shot of the claw mark dragging across the ceiling was captured. The audio distorted slightly when the female voice appeared, but her warning chirped through the speaker loudly, as if she yelled it directly into microphone.

 

Tucker groaned inwardly at the poor quality of the video. He should have set up another camera in the living room for a cross perspective. Why didn’t he move the tripod further away from the hall? Was his hand muffling the microphone at one point? Amateur.

 

“This is incredible.” Specs looked up at Tucker like a kid seeing Santa Claus in the flesh. “We have to put this up on Spectral Sightings.”

 

Tucker was dismayed to see that the Spectral Sightings website was comprised of broken, copy-pasted html codes when he finally got around to embedding the raw footage into Spec’s newest article. What began as a simple project ended as an evening long revamp of the entire website. Specs pulled up a chair beside Tucker and gave him directions on how he wanted the site to look, which Tucker ultimately ignored in favor of his own preferences, one of which included an “About Me” page for Spectral Sightings’ newly appointed camera man.

 

Tucker approached every part of their new partnership in the same way, as Specs discovered over the following week. For every suggestion or request Specs offered, Tucker had a better one, and he was more than happy to put it into place without further debate. The website needed a forum for reader requests, people didn’t use email anymore. Shoes should and could be worn on the carpet, why would we bother taking them off at the door? The Xbox should definitely go in the living room instead of Tucker’s garage, so they could play on the larger tv, of course.

 

Tucker found a way to monopolize the inside of Spec’s apartment as well as taking over the garage, which had become a cross between a young boy’s bedroom and a junkyard, with an ever growing pile of electronics building on the workbench. Tucker had managed to acquire two or three new t-shirts, but the rest of his money seemed exclusively budgeted for obtaining random garbage. Despite their agreement, his mess always managed to spill over into the living room, where he would occasionally eat while he worked on some indistinguishable gadget.

 

Specs mustered every drop of patience his polite and normally collected mind could produce for the first five days. He wouldn’t call himself a pushover, but he certainly didn’t like conflict; avoiding conflict had been one of the many benefits of living alone up until now. Instead, he followed Tucker around like a maid, offering the occasional “would you mind picking that up” or the timid “could you please open the windows when you cook thai food?”

 

It was a small thing that finally pushed him over the edge. Specs sat at the dining room table reading old newspaper articles about a supposedly haunted boathouse in Newport Beach, occasionally looking up to behold the slovenly wonder of Tucker eating vindaloo while playing Halo. He decided to perform an experiment. Beginning from when Tucker finished his meal, Specs started a timer on his phone to see how long, if at all, it took Tucker to get up and put the dish in the sink. Confident in his estimation that it would take quite a while, Specs settled into his usual macabre evening reading. Every half an hour or so he would look up to find, not surprisingly, that neither the dish nor Tucker had moved. At first he was smugly confirmed. However, when the timer reached 4 hours and 26 minutes, Specs began to grow irritated. It wasn’t completely unreasonable for Tucker to wait until he was done relaxing before cleaning up, but something about the smell of the vindaloo sauce stuck in Specs' nose. The sight of a fly buzzing around the plate mesmerized him momentarily. There were never flies in his house before. And it wasn’t just this dish, this one time. It was every night: the dishes he cooked with, the dishes he ate off of, the coffee cups he left ⅓ full in the microwave overnight.

 

Specs stood up suddenly and went to pick up the dish from the coffee table.

 

“Not done with it.” Tucker said without breaking his gaze from the game.

 

“It’s empty.” Specs huffed.

 

“I’m going to dirty it again at some point.”

 

“So you don’t wash your dishes between meals?”

 

Tucker threw his hands up and tossed the controller to the side after suddenly dying in Halo. He looked up at Specs, inwardly admiring how he looked with his hands on his hips like a toddler whose birthday party wasn’t going well. “You’d have to do a lot less work if you used one plate, one cup, and one fork for the whole day. Instead you just keep washing them, so I have to keep pulling out new ones. Work smart, not hard.”

 

“That phrase does not apply where basic sanitation is concerned.”

 

Tucker picked up the plate and licked it.

 

“See? Clean.”

 

“That’s disgusting.”

 

“Do two single dudes really have any business living in an apartment that looks like the cover of a Martha Stewart magazine?”

 

The phrase “single” checked in somewhere in the back of Specs’ brain, somewhere beyond the fog of vindaloo in the air. “Neither being single, nor a _dude_ ,” He emphasized with some sass “means we are obligated to live in a pigsty. I’m sorry. I don’t mind having you here but I- I have certain ways of doing things. When I use a dish, I wash it. After I take something out, I put it away. I have a routine, and when that routine is interrupted in the smallest degree, it affects every other part of my day. I’m sorry, I don’t mind having you here, but I can’t support your science experiments.”

 

Tucker felt a twinge of something most emotionally intelligent people would identify as guilt. He’d spent the past five years alone or couch surfing, breezing in and out of different states and living situations since he first left home. He was the perennial independant, inherently introverted but charming enough to fool people into thinking he was an extrovert, when in reality he couldn’t point to a friendship or family connection that had lasted or meant anything. He never had a reason to consider anyone else’s needs, having even spent his childhood making his own decisions where his hapless father could not. Yet something about Spec’s earnestness, his singular sureness that what he wanted was just as valid as Tucker’s wishes, managed to pierce through years of selfish habit. Tucker didn’t understand why a few dirty dishes or footprints on the carpet bothered Specs, but it suddenly bothered him to have bothered his roommate.

 

Specs woke the next morning at 6am, according to his precise internal alarm clock, which had determined he could survive on two REM cycles every night. His morning routine was just as patterned. Shower with tea tree oil shampoo, a nice, smooth shave followed with knock-off Polo aftershave, and a warm set of clothes straight out of the dryer before heading to the door for the newspapers (he currently held subscriptions to an entire 12 local and national periodicals). An abnormality stopped him on the way down the hall, however. In addition to the usual smell of dark roast coffee set to brew on a timer came the haze of waffles from the kitchen, where he found Tucker looming over the waffle iron in nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Blobs of batter covered the counter and the sink was filled with dishes that Specs couldn’t fathom had been necessary to make waffles with.

 

“What’s this?” Specs asked. Tucker looked a bit surprised to have been caught, and even sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“Uh. Apology waffles.” He gestured to a plate of steaming waffles with an oven mit. “I’ll clean everything when I’m done.”

 

Specs adjusted his glasses to hide his smile. Despite the discomfort of having his morning routine disrupted, he couldn’t help but appreciate what might be a decently functional compromise from Mr. Know-it-All. He could stand to let his routine change, if at least for one day. “Thanks. Don’t worry about cleaning up. I prefer to do it myself anyway.”


	5. You Keep Me Hangin On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs almost dies, then almost dies of embarrassment. Tucker fails to flirt with Specs, then settles for teasing him.

**October, 2004**

 

“No. Nope. There is no way you’re getting me to ride that thing.”

 

“That’s what she said.”

 

Specs and Tucker stood in the garage, looking down at Tucker’s bike: a turquoise Kawasaki KZ1000, circa 1970-something, that was quite worse for the wear. Like everything he owned he had modified and customized it himself, including the addition of a few tacky vinyl band decals. They were “thrashcore” bands and Specs just didn’t “get it.” Specs didn’t want to get whatever it was Tucker liked listening to. After a few weeks they had settled into functional dysfunction. The music, friends, and filth that Specs did not approve of were relegated to the garage, while Tucker bravely withstood (see ignored) Spec’s late night pacing sessions and manic explanations of his articles. Nothing came without compromise, but for the most part their lives as mutual losers gelled well. That is, except for where the motorcycle was concerned.

 

“It’s a death trap.”

 

“It’s awesome.”

 

"I'll just take the bus there."

 

"Taking the downtown bus is more dangerous than riding a motorcycle. Especially dressed like that." Tucker gestured to Specs as if he was supposed to understand what that meant.

 

Tucker had been trying to get Specs onto his motorcycle since he moved in. It was one of his (previously) sure fire pick-up tactics. He didn't want to push the issue too hard -they had a good thing going with Spectral Sightings, after all- but hormones being what they were, he couldn't help but try. Specs didn't seem to respond to any of his best tricks, however. Shirtless baking and a sixteen second Rubik's cube solve had both failed to impress. A golden opportunity presented itself when the station wagon broke down. Tucker offered to fix it, and made a point of only working on it when Specs was around to watch him, making just enough progress to seem handy while working just slowly enough that Specs would be forced to accept a ride on the motorcycle eventually. So far he couldn't tell if Specs was swooning, or even remotely impressed, but then again, Specs' facial expression for excitement was one iota away from his expression of anxiety, and it was often difficult to tell the difference between the two.

 

“C’mon. We have a client waiting. A real one.” Tucker pulled a helmet from his bed/pile of blankets and held it out to Specs. “You don’t want to be late, do you?”

 

Going for his weak spot, punctuality? A low move. This was, indeed, the first real case they were going to together. They had checked out an abandoned house rumored to be haunted about a week ago, but it turned out to be a homeless Vietnam vet squatting in the attic. This most recent case seemed like a good lead to Specs: a woman who lived alone downtown emailed them about frequent visits from a male presence in her room. Specs couldn’t understand why Tucker laughed at him when he read the email out loud:

 

“Dear ‘Specs’, I was delighted to find your profile while searching for help online. You see, I have a unique problem which I believe you may be able to shed light on, given your undoubtable expertise. For some time now I have been visited at night by a mysterious male presence in my bedroom. The figure is never still long enough for me to see him clearly, or to speak to him, but I find him to be an intense presence in the room. He fills me with a warmth and a strange sense of animal passion. I am a single woman, and I have no important male figures in my life, deceased or otherwise, to whom I can associate this spirit. I wonder if you can help me reach out to this spirit, whether he be a ghost or some raw energy that was drawn to me where it saw a lack of companionship. If you come to the Liberty Building, room 1408, for dinner one evening I’m sure we can unlock the mystery of what is haunting my bedroom. Best, Deborah Conrad.”

 

A flush of anxiety washed over Specs as he looked at the bike. He had never ridden on a motorcycle to have developed any particular trauma, but he knew he hated the very idea of it. Tucker waved the helmet in front of his face. “Let’s go, Steve-o.” He turned Specs by the shoulders to face him and planted the helmet on his head, giving the sides a firm smack to bring Specs back into reality.

 

“Maybe we can reschedule.”

 

“Trust me. I’ve been riding this baby for years. She won’t let you down.” He tossed Specs the backpack of camera equipment and put on his own helmet before settling into the saddle of his bike. “We doing this?”

 

Specs steadied his voice. “Fine. Like the noble members of our US postal service, when a client is in need of my help, neither snow nor rain nor-”

 

“Yeah, ok, blah blah. Hop on, brother.” Tucker revved the engine to life, causing Specs to jump, but despite his clearly shaking hands, Specs slung his leg over the seat and scooted up against Tucker. Officially the closest he had yet to be to his roommate, Specs took a moment to appreciate the strangely appealing scent that he could only assume Tucker got from gargling maple syrup and daubing motor oil behind the ears like perfume. He wrapped his arms around Tucker’s chest just in time before Tucker kicked up his stand and started out of the garage.

 

Specs only tried to climb off the bike at two traffic lights before they arrived downtown. When they finally stopped in a parking garage, he clamored off the bike and tore the helmet off his head, panting as if he had been holding his breath the entire ride. Tucker failed to conceal his laughter.

 

“This is not funny. That was literally the worst thing I've ever experienced.” Specs shook off the backpack like it was filled with bees and tossed it to Tucker. “This thing was pulling me off the entire time. Are you storing lead pipes in there?”

 

“I wouldn’t have let you fall.” Tucker rifled through the bag and produced a squashed bologna sandwich and a Yoohoo. They began walking out the street while Specs fussed over directions to the apartment building he had written in his notepad. They arrived in front of an extravagant building with a doorman and coat check, where they immediately felt and looked out of place.

 

“Gosh, I didn’t really expect this woman to be so-”

 

“Yeah.” Tucker stared up at the tower building. “Fancy digs. We should charge an hourly rate.”

 

“No. What we do is for the betterment of our community. It’s important work, and we would cheapen our integrity by charging for it.” Specs said. Tucker waved his bologna sandwich at Specs dismissively. “Would it kill you to eat before we leave the house?”

 

“I did.” They continued to bicker into the building, where the doorman buzzed up to one Miss Deborah Conrad and let them pass through the grand lobby to the elevator. Specs spent the ride to the 14th floor lecturing Tucker on the virtues of their work, which Tucker drowned out by slurping his Yoohoo loudly through the straw, causing Specs to raise his voice in turn. The other occupants of the elevator were not amused.

 

“This is it. 1408.” Specs grabbed Tucker by the backpack strap to keep him from walking past it when they stepped into the hallway. He gave Tucker a once over. “You have mustard in your beard.”

 

“Good catch.” Tucker rubbed his sleeve across his beard a few times, transferring the mustard from his beard to his sleeve. Specs shuddered. There was nothing more to be done with him, so Specs settled for being the professional one and straightened his hair before knocking.

 

The woman who answered the door would be the second worst thing Specs experienced that day. Deborah was an attractive lady: middle-aged, lean and well dressed. Perhaps a bit overdressed, in fact, in her cocktail dress. Her face lit up when she saw Specs, then immediately darkened at the sight of Tucker towering next to him. Specs was about to ask if they had come on the wrong night when she scooped up his hand and shook it.

 

“Why Specs, I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Who is your friend?”

 

Flustered, Specs stammered his introduction. “This is Tucker. He’ll be using cameras to help us identify what you’re experiencing.”

 

Deborah sized Tucker up with some distaste before offering another glowing smile to Specs and stepping aside, ushering them both in with a sweeping gesture. “Come in, come in. Let me get you something to drink. Assuming you’re old enough to drink.” She winked and pinched Specs on the cheek. They entered the spacious and extravagant flat behind her. Specs couldn’t imagine such a nice place could be haunted. It was certainly different from the dirty tenements and abandoned houses he usually worked in.

 

Deborah spun around and handed them both glasses of some wine they weren’t cultured enough to appreciate. Specs’ glass was significantly more full than Tucker’s. They nervously settled in on a sofa in the living area, expecting their client to sit across from them, but she opted to sit beside Specs. Tucker swirled his drink in the glass, looking around for potted plants he could possibly pour it in. He opted to set it down and appear distracted by rifling in his bag.

 

“So Specs- am I saying that right? Quite a cute little nickname. Did your friends give that to you?” Deborah cooed.

 

“Oh, no. I actually gave it to myself. Because of the glasses, you know. And the uh, well, Spectral Sightings. It’s kind of… a little wordplay.” Specs said. Deborah laughed as if that was somehow terribly endearing and clever.

 

“Well. I always thought glasses made a man appear very intelligent.” She put a hand on his knee. Tucker dropped his camera. “When I saw your little website-”

 

“It’s an ezine, actually...”

 

“-I just thought you must be heaven sent, what with this little issue I’ve been having. I’ve been afraid to talk to anyone about it, of course- you know how some people can be about these things. But you seemed like you really knew your stuff. Quite the writer, too. Insightful and-”

 

“Do you mind if we fast forward to the ghost stuff?” Tucker said. Specs shot him a withering glare, which Tucker had learned to interpret as his ‘you’re embarrassing me’ look. He didn’t take it to heart, considering Specs was easily embarrassed. Yet, somehow, he was completely oblivious to the thing that should have been embarrassing him. Deborah also gave Tucker a tight lipped smile. He didn’t know her well, but he read it as 'shut the hell up.’

 

“Perhaps we should go to the bedroom, where all of the trouble started.” She said to Specs. Specs went to stand up with her, but Tucker put a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.

 

“Why don’t you go ahead, we need to go over some technical things first. Alone.” Tucker said with a cheesy fake smile.

 

“Well, I’ll be down the hall there.” Deborah said, ruffling Specs’ hair a bit. “Don’t need all of both of you in there, of course.” Tucker maintained his grip on Specs’ while she slinked out of the room.

 

“What are you doing?” Specs hissed.

 

“Saving you. That cougar wants to eat you alive.” Tucker began packing his gear back into the bag, as if their departure would be quick and inevitable. Specs stood up defensively.

 

“What are you talking about? That woman simply called us here to help her with a problem in her bedroom.”

 

“You’re kind of oblivious, aren’t you?”

 

Specs folded his arms over his chest and assumed the lecturing posture. “Look, we owe it to all of our clients to listen to them and give them the benefit of the doubt when they ask for our help. It’s not our place to question or judge what a person may be experiencing when they-”

 

“Ah, shh, you’re doing it again.” Tucker held out a finger. “Look, it doesn’t take much to figure out that the only thing haunting this chick is her thirst for a new squeaky toy. We’re wasting our time here. And I sure as hell don’t want to record anything that goes on in her bedroom.”

 

“Fine. You stay out here. I’ll continue the investigation without you.” Specs was out of sight in the bedroom for a total of six minutes. Tucker knew, because he calmly recorded it on his watch while he waited. When Specs returned it was with ruffled hair and a traumatized expression.

 

"Let's go."

 

Tucker managed to feign syrupy concern. "What's wrong? You look like you just saw a ghost or something."

 

"Too much something."

 

The elevator ride down was much more quiet, as Specs made it clear he didn't want to talk about it, but Tucker knew enough by the shade of red Specs had turned.

 

"I told you." He finally crooned.

 

"I still stand by what I said." Specs smoothed his shirt primly and tidied his hair, having regained some composure. "Besides, it's kind of flattering, really, to go through all that trouble to ask me out. A wealthy, attractive woman like that. She said I was handsome, even asked me to a wine tasting, before, you know..."

 

"And you turned her down."

 

"Well I'm sure you can tell I'm... not interested in older women." Specs hated lying. He did, however, possess a knack for telling truth-like bullshit. He wasn't interested in older women. He wasn't interested in any women. Tucker happened to be pretty good at reading past Specs' bullshit. He was finding it an amusing little pastime, in fact. In this case, however, he didn't want to push the issue. It wasn't his place to make assumptions about Specs' love life. That would be rude. Besides, he had already asked around with mutual classmates and snooped through Specs' browsing history, so assumptions were no longer necessary. In the meantime, 'not interested in older women' would make for a handy little euphemism.

 

It took a dinner bribe and some deep breathing exercises to get Specs back on the motorcycle to go home. Tucker assumed it would have been impossible if Specs didn’t have something so motivating to run away from. When they got home Specs took a long shower, presumably to wash off the cooties. In some unspoken agreement, some instinctual habit of turning up to the watering hole, Specs and Tucker had started watching a movie together every Friday night. Perhaps it was the fact that they both had nowhere else to be, but they made a ritual of spending the night in, drinking a few beers and watching some splatterfest. So when he was sufficiently clean, Specs immediately settled in on the couch in anticipation of their weekly appointment.

 

Tucker, being a true renaissance man, had also started to make dinner every night. It was never at a consistent time, and never anything healthy, but Specs had learned to expect a bowl of Hamburger Helper or Spaghettios in front of him every night. The meal du jour was Scooby Doo shaped Mac and Cheese and a few PBAs. Tucker slid a bowl onto the coffee table in front of Specs and flopped down next to him. He popped a can of beer open and held it out to Specs, who was preoccupied flipping through a cd case of bootleg films, courtesy of one of Tucker’s sketchy hipster friends.

 

“Blood Feast or Barron Blood?" Specs asked.

 

“There’s more than those two in there.” Tucker waved the can around. “Take it.”

 

“Well yeah, but those are the two I want to watch." Specs continued to flip between the two, tapping the sleeves back and forth with his thumbs.

 

Tucker whistled through his teeth at Specs. "Take you beer, Kowalski."

 

"I've seen them both... I just know I want to watch one of these two."

 

Tucker pressed the chilled beer can against Specs' face to get his attention. Specs jumped and pushed him away. "Alright, jeez." He grabbed the can and perched it between his knees. With a dramatic sigh, he finally selected a dvd and held it out to Tucker. "I think this is the right choice."

 

"Are you sure? This moment could affect the rest of your life."

 

"Yeah, I get it."

 

They nestled in to watch the technicolor blood of a virgin cannibal feast, indifferent to the exciting life they might otherwise have if they had chosen to go out on a Friday night. Despite the fact that no conversation came without bickering and sarcasm, Specs and Tucker had slipped into a cozy familiarity all too quickly. Specs recalled some metaphor of his mother's about "the one" being someone you could be yourself with easily and quickly, though he didn't remember the exact phrasing and was sure she was talking about a relationship with a woman. He knew he would have to resolve himself, up front, to not let his mind wander down that path. The occasional casual boyfriend was one thing. Easy enough to hide then say goodbye to when things got too close to 'meet the parents'. But Tucker wasn't going to be that. If you asked Specs, he would say Tucker was a nuisance at worst, and a mystery at best- but on some level he was already sure he wanted to keep the guy around, and if that was the case, it would have to be strictly as friends.

 

"I can't believe it." Tucker muttered over the movie. "You gave yourself your own nickname. How sad can you get?"

 

"It's called branding."

 

"It's called being a dweeb."

 

"Coming from the man who sleeps holding his P700 audio recording device..."

 

"That's tactical, it's for protection."

 

"Glad to know you're using it."

 

They spent the rest of their weekend debating the future of the ezine, which Tucker was now insisting should focus more on video content than written, effectively transitioning into a webseries. Specs found himself dreading Monday, as it meant he would have to ride the motorcycle to class if Tucker didn’t finish fixing his car. On Sunday, Tucker disappeared on one of his mysterious errands, which usually meant he was going to the dump for new material, but on this occasion he came back with an empty backpack.

 

“Come outside, I want to show you something.” He announced unceremoniously as he tramped in from the garage. Specs was perched at the breakfast table reading fan and hate mail alike.

 

“Some guy named Todd says we’re pussies, so that’s nice…thanks Todd.” Specs folded up the letter and tossed it into the trash. Tucker nudged him on his way past to the front door and Specs followed without argument.

 

“Tada.” Tucker opened the front door, revealing a rusted, blocky van in the driveway. Specs stepped outside, looking dumbfounded. “It’s the company car, a stakeout vehicle. Figured we’d get her painted up, add the logo and stuff. I know you don’t like my bike. Thought this was maybe more your speed.”

 

Specs had the look: the one that was either anxiety or excitement. Tucker waited to see which one it would be.

 

“This is… awesome. We- we can put your equipment in here, and a logo will definitely add the kind of professionalism we need.” He paused and a looked at Tucker, an expression of genuine gratitude on his face. “I can’t believe you sold your bike to buy this.”

 

“Oh. Uh, well actually I traded your station wagon for it…”


	6. A Thing of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nice micro-chapter. While on a stake-out, Tucker asks the hard hitting existential questions about splinters we've all been wondering, then asks some personal questions about Specs.

**July, 2005**

 

“Roy Abe was nineteen years old when he died. Pushed to the brink by questions of loyalty he could not understand, unfair imprisonment in squalid living conditions, and the seeming impossibility of rebuilding his life after his release from the Tule Lake Relocation Camp, Abe hung himself with his own belt in 1947. But perhaps the most...perhaps what haunted Abe the most… hmmm. Help me word this.”

 

Specs and Tucker sat, back to back on a milk crate, in the middle of a dusty two bedroom house in Siskiyou County. It had been ten months since their run in with the spirit of Mr. Otis Brown. In that time, they had answered over thirty calls reporting paranormal activity, and in that time they encountered exactly zero ghosts. So when a local emailed them about the ghost of Roy Abe floating by the window, the boys happily made the ten hour trip north in hopes of ending their dry spell. Specs was getting tired of filling Spectral Sightings with fluff pieces about the theory and methodology of paranormal investigation.

 

“I’m trying to convey that the final nail in the coffin was his mother’s death.” Specs scribbled out something on his notepad.

 

“That sounded fine.” Tucker muttered.

 

“What part?”

 

“The nail in the coffin part.”

 

“Really? I don’t know. It’s kind of trite.” Specs adjusted his glasses, which Tucker had outfitted with LED lights after he accidently walked into pole a few weeks back during an investigation. “I want to work the emotional angle, you know. I feel like I haven’t been able to convey… I think people hold on from the other side because there’s, like, a strong emotion attached to their death.”

 

“Well obviously.” Tucker turned on the milk crate to better face Specs. “I mean, no wants to die.”

 

“What about suicide?”

 

“They ain’t doing it because they like it. They just like living less, I guess.” Tucker said. Specs nodded solemnly and they sat in silence for a minute. “Does this look infected to you?”

 

Tucker held his finger under Spec’s light, showing off a splinter. Specs pushed it away. “What the hell. Yes. Don’t touch me with it.”

 

“I’m not touching you.” Tucker started biting at the splinter like a hangnail. “Got it setting up the still camera downstairs. Maybe it’ll be haunted. Like… because I have a strong emotion attached to it.”

 

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

 

“If it’s haunted will you write about it?”

 

“No.” Specs slapped his pencil down onto his notebook and stood up, causing Tucker to lose his balance without anything to lean on. He began to pace the floor. The beam of his glasses switched back and forth across the room. "I mean, don't you agree? There's gotta be something that tethers specific people to specific places. That's a common enough belief. But people never quite understand how that could feel. They can't empathize. Living people, that is."

 

"Living people can't understand what it feels like to die."

 

"But the best writers can make people feel things they haven't experienced."

 

There it was. Tucker was used to the pattern. Specs was given to rambling, but it always circled back around to the same insecurities. He wasn't a good enough writer, or artist, or anything. At first, Specs had concealed it well under an adorably unconvincing facade of self-assurance, but as they grew closer in the past few months, Specs had started to be more up front about how he felt. Tucker was woefully unqualified to handle his own emotions, let alone someone else's, so he worried he never had anything particularly helpful to say. Usually he would try to change the subject. Occasionally he would actually try to assure Specs he was wrong, but that tended to backfire. He was especially tender about his writing. As far as Tucker could tell, Specs put a lot of stake on writing as the one and only means of connecting with the rest of humanity, which, needless to say, led to a lot of overthinking.

 

"Well, the best writers have to be able to feel things they haven't experienced." Tucker decided to humor him. "It's like being an actor. You gotta tap into a similar experience you had so you can be convincing. You don't know what you dying feels like, but maybe you know what someone else dying does."

 

"I don't know anyone that's died."

 

"What about a friend or something? Someone who bailed on you. Not dead, just, you don't see them anymore."

 

"I don't have a lot of friends."

 

Tucker looked up at him hopelessly. He was running out of tips from his high school theater class. "Then just... think about something that makes you sad." He said, clearly losing interest. It seemed to do the trick, though. Specs' headlights stopped darting around the room. He got quiet, then eventually sat back down next to Tucker. Suddenly Tucker became incredibly interested again. Exactly what could make Specs so sad that he would actually shut up for so long?

 

"We're friends, right?" Specs eventually said. Tucker smiled, just out of Specs' view.

 

"Yeah dude."

 

"Here, let me see." Specs turned and gestured for Tucker's hand. From his pocket he produced a swiss army knife and a small first aid kit. "Rule number one of paranormal investigation: always-be-prepared."

 

Tucker let Specs take his hand and begin gently working the splinter out with the knife. From his vantage point (the half foot he had on Specs) he could see Specs biting his lip in concentration, which called attention to his mouth, which called attention to the rest of his face. There was always a moment, every morning when he would first see his roommate, where Tucker was surprised all over again. Usually he could shake the feeling, and he could go on treating Specs like Specs, but occasionally he would do something that would leave Tucker hung up for the rest of the day, like wearing that one shirt or the way he would sometimes chew his pencil when he had writer's block.

 

Specs attempted to maintain a pleasant expression, but now, face to face, Tucker could tell there was still a heavy thought somewhere behind his eyes. As easily as they had fallen into friendship, Tucker couldn’t help but feeling like he wasn’t getting the full picture, and he was beginning to feel an uncharacteristic urge for intimacy. He let out a heavy, involuntary sigh through his nose.

 

"Squeamish?" Specs asked, suddenly looking back up at Tucker. "You look dizzy."

 

"Huh? No. You're highbeams are just blinding me." The defense systems came back online, and Tucker kicked himself for it. Specs offered an apologetic grimace before he finished applying a bandaid to Tucker’s wounded hand.

 

“That should do.” Specs packed up his little first aid kit like a diligent boy scout. “You should have read my article on safety during investigations. Most people, you know, worry about demon attacks and stuff, but the number one threat during an investigation is these little cuts and bumps that happen when you’re in an isolated location. I guess it’s always good to use the buddy system too, for that reason. Hmm. I should write an article about the importance of investigating in teams…”

 

Tucker opted to get up and check the equipment while Specs rambled. It would buy him time to calm down, at least. He could allow himself little moments to admire his roommate’s eager smiles and giddy enthusiasm, but he always had to stop himself before the feelings solidified. Something about the way Specs’ usually boyish face had grown dark and contemplative in the dim light, however, was captivating Tucker on a new level. It signaled that Specs was more than just the nerdy friend Tucker could check out from the corner of his eye. He was a complicated adult, with secrets to keep- secrets Tucker wanted to know. He could sense himself making the decision, just above the subconscious, to push the matter further, even if it meant he would push his feelings just past a point from which he couldn’t get them back.

 

“So what was it?” Tucker asked, candidly, without his usual gruff affectation.

 

“What?” Specs looked up from his notebook. Tucker couldn’t stand having a real conversation while making eye contact. Instead, he gave his attention to the camera set up on a tripod in the corner.

 

“The uh, the thing you thought of. Like an actor, like I said.”

 

“Gee... I don’t know. I guess I was thinking about my parents.” Specs fell quiet for a while, but Tucker didn’t dare turn around and face him again. Specs wondered how much he could say. He’d always been able to content himself with being alone, whether by delusion or distraction, so questions of what he was comfortable sharing had never really been an issue. Without any precedent he couldn’t really be sure, but if he was comfortable with anyone, it was Tucker. “They’re kind of...they don’t really like what I do.”

 

“What? This?”

 

“Yeah. I mean. Mostly this. And… well everything. They uh, well, I think my dad would prefer I worked some kind of rugged job like construction. Not necessarily his dream to have me… studying art at community college.”

 

Tucker couldn’t help but snort at the image of Specs working construction, but something defensive welled up inside of him too. It bothered him to hear of someone else giving Specs a hard time. That was his job, and he only meant it as a joke.

 

“Fuck him.” Tucker didn’t hide his sincere anger.

 

"No- no, he's really good. He got me that apartment. He means well, I guess." Specs looked around nervously. Tucker could tell he wasn't getting the full story, nor would he probably get it that night, but even with his low emotional IQ he could understand subtext enough to see where things were going. The parents didn't like what and, presumably, who Specs did. No wonder Specs rushed him out like mouse with a broom every Tuesday when they came over for dinner. "What about you?"

 

Tucker sauntered back over, hands in his pockets. He shrugged.

 

"Your dad seems nice." Specs said, recalling the fact that Tucker made a point to call his father every night. So far he had been able to gather that Tucker's father and younger sister lived in Tulsa County, OK. He seemed genuinely sentimental about them, but kept a tight lip on his family life otherwise. No mention of his mother. Ever.

 

"He tries."

 

"Are they divorced? Your parents?"

 

Tucker fixed him with a serious look. He shrugged again, sat back down, back-to-back, with Specs, and rested his chin on his hand. "Mom's dead."

 

"I'm sorry for your loss." Specs said. Tucker couldn't help but smile at Specs' 'I'm uncomfortable right now' tone.

 

"Can't lose what you never really had."

 

Tucker was done now. He remembered why he preferred his privacy. Touchy-feely bullcrap was exhausting. But a small part of him was relieved to know that he had shared even a little bit with Specs. This was the first actual friend he'd had in a long time- someone he didn't want to run out on, despite every part of his flaky personality urging him otherwise. It came at a cost though: Tucker could sense his nebulous feelings of interest solidifying into genuine attraction. It didn't make it any easier when Specs nestled back, leaning his back against Tucker like her was a reclining chair.

 

"Yeah." Specs attempted to redirect the conversation to spare Tucker any discomfort. "My dad thinks I'm a loser."

 

"Makes two of us."

 

"At least there's two of us."

  
"Unless Roy decides to show up."


	7. No One Ever Tells You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker wakes up from a nap to an unpleasant surprise.

**October, 2005**

 

Specs was almost at his wit's end with Tucker. In the first year that they had known each other, Tucker had gone through a number of phases. Specs met him in his hipster phase. He tolerated him through his heavy metal phase, and was even strangely aroused by his lumberjack phase, but the punk phase was simply unacceptable at his age. Specs would never admit it, even to himself, but he loved Tucker's shaggy hair. To see it all on the bathroom floor with nothing but a mohawk left on Tucker's head was strangely gut wrenching. At least the beard had remained intact. So when Tucker called him in to ask if he liked it, Specs couldn't help but be honest.

 

"It's... not your best look."

 

"Too late now." Tucker seemed pleased to have bothered Specs. At least that trait had remained consistent about the man who had changed his hair, clothing style, and college major multiple times in thirteen months. Specs didn't understand this on a fundamental level, having been content to do the same things the same way from the time he could walk and talk. He was still wearing the same clothes he had in high school, which probably explained why the shirt he was wearing at the moment was so distractingly tight. Tucker wondered if Specs realized that every time he wore that shirt Tucker would excuse himself to the bathroom for an unusually long time.

 

"If you're done with your makeover, we have work to do." Specs would come back to clean up the mess in the bathroom later. Tucker couldn't be counted on to do it correctly, that was for sure. He continued with the agenda as they walked out to the living room: "I'm just finishing up the article on the McBride case, so I need you to get those photos ready for the next issue- have you edited the hotel footage yet? We need to re-upload the version without that embarrassing close up. Um... as far as the week going forward I have a doughnut shop that may or may not be losing stock due to paranormal activity or some kid named Brian, something about getting random bruises at night, but that could just be an excuse to meet us. We're kind of his heroes."

 

"Just tell me where to point the camera, boss."

 

"I'm asking you. Actually, no, it might be best to avoid bringing you to a doughnut shop." Specs said. Tucker sneered in response. "I'll email Brian back, tell him we'll come by this week."

 

Tucker leaned against the arm of the sofa and admired Specs as he booted up the laptop at the breakfast table. He was practically a saint for having respected Specs' boundaries for so long. Their quarters were just close enough that Tucker was sure he didn't have a boyfriend in the past year, so none of his rules about who not to hit on necessarily applied, but there was a definitive 'do not cross' line put up through subtle suggestion. Specs, it would seem, had removed himself from the dating pool entirely and resigned himself to eternal bachelorhood, for reasons Tucker could only assume had to do with being three-fourths still in the closet.

 

Specs had practically said as much a few weeks ago, when he received one of his monthly rent check letters from his father. As usual, the mail was an even split of junk mail, fan mail, and hate mail, the latter of which was often decorated with diagrams and descriptions of what their anti-fans assumed two men working and living together would obviously be doing. Tucker had sorted through the mail at the kitchen counter while Specs was washing dishes.

 

"Got a letter for Steven." He waved the letter around. "We should make sure Steven gets this."

 

"Give it to me." Specs wiped his hands dry on his pants. Tucker held the envelope just above reach and up to the light, trying to get a look inside. A dark, square wrapper, thicker than the rest of the letter, was visible. Specs hopped up and snatched it out of his hand. He turned away and opened it over the kitchen sink, groaning as he revealed the contents. Tucker looked over his shoulder.

 

"Do you mind?" Specs pulled the letter out of the envelope and twisted his body to block Tucker again, but Tucker grabbed what he was looking for: the envelope, now empty except for a single wrapped Trojan inside. Specs cleared his throat and read. "'Dear Steven, you remember Charlie from work, right? I set you up on a date with his daughter. She's expecting you to call her this week. She's pretty hot-" He paused to make a dramatic "ick" sound, "so don't bring up anything about your ghost hunting. PS- be safe. Ha ha ha.'" He read dryly.

 

"You gonna do it?" Tucker asked, attempting to look disinterested in the answer.

 

"No. I wouldn't go on a date with someone that I can't even tell what I do for a living." Specs looked mortified. "She'd figure it out eventually, anyway."

 

Tucker waved the condom in front of him. "I don't think your dad is trying to set you up in a long term relationship."

 

Specs snatched the condom out of his hand. "Well I have other priorities. I'm married to my work. And you have no business laughing about this. You sit on the same couch as me every night watching movies, so I know you're not getting laid either."

 

"Ouch."

 

"I don't even want to know what gas station bathroom he got this in." Specs held the condom at arms length like a smelly sock. Tucker wasn't sure if Specs' father was genuinely oblivious to the fact that his son "wasn't interested in older women" or if he was just living in deep denial. His insistence on setting Specs up on dates pointed to the latter.

 

After a minute of frantic typing Specs looked back up at Tucker, who was still watching him. "What are you staring at?"

 

"Not much." Tucker resorted to insulting Specs whenever he caught him staring. A year ago he would have claimed to be quite the smooth operator. He wasn't cool, but he was a successful flirt, with the pick-up artistry to hook them and the kissing skills to keep them around. Specs wasn't a guy at a coffee shop though. When Tucker dropped pick-up lines, Specs didn't notice. When he complimented him, Specs assumed he was being mocked. And when he bought him a drink, Specs took it as a favor to be repaid down the line. There was no cracking him, no in-road to be found. Specs didn't want to date anyone, it would seem, and Tucker didn't want to date anyone else. The Tucker of a year ago wouldn't have recognized him.

 

Tucker had gone from interested to infatuated over the summer. Nothing major had changed between them, but his self-control was eroding, and he found himself giving in to the satisfying but dangerous feeling of unrequited affection more and more. He knew he'd have to rein it in soon if he wanted to keep their friendship safe.

 

"Well, anyway..." Specs said with an irritated huff. "This kid says he's been waking up in random parts of the house. Seeing bumps and bruises. It's probably just sleepwalking, but I'm thinking we can do an overnight monitor, see if we get weird readings or see any of these episodes."

 

"Sounds good." Tucker walked around behind him into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

 

"Given the nature of the case, I'll have to screen them with some questions. It's not uncommon for a kid his age to see abuse and rationalize it as ghosts or alien abduction."

 

"Maybe go easy on that stuff?" Tucker said as he dug around in the refrigerator. "You freak people out when you accuse them like that."

 

"I _don't_ freak people out." Specs insisted.

 

"You can be a little intense."

 

"I'm intense? You do that creepy thing where you stare at people when you eat."

 

"Do not." Tucker began unwrapping a package of salami. He took an exaggerated bite and stared at Specs.

 

"Do to."

 

"Nuh uh."

 

"Uh h- I'm not doing this with you right now."

  


"Maybe I just stare at you." Tucker said. As usual, Specs failed to realize he was being flirted with, despite how charming Tucker sounded with his mouth full. There was a joke about eating meat in there somewhere that Tucker managed to stop himself from making. He took the salami and a block of cheese with him over to the garage door. "Gonna nap. Wake me up when you want to go."

 

"Oh, I was thinking we wouldn't go until Thursday."

 

"Right. Wake me up in two days." Tucker's longest nap was 26 consecutive hours, so he was only exaggerating slightly. This time Tucker was only out for a few hours, but when he woke up it felt significantly longer. Disoriented in his half sleep, he checked the clock and assumed it meant 6:30 am, rather than pm, and decided he should stumble out and steal some of whatever smelled so good in the kitchen. He pulled on the shirt he knew Specs hated the most -a tee with a SNES cartridge on it that said "Blow Me"- and a pair of ripped jeans before heading into the house. He immediately regretted getting out of bed.

 

Sitting around the table for dinner, not breakfast, were two people that were presumably Spec's parents, and Specs, who was looking at Tucker like his was going to kill him. Spec's parents turned around to see what the disturbance was. Specs looked like he took after his mother more, with the same dark hair, pale skin, and wiry frame. His father, on the other hand, was a big man with peppery hair and red, chapped skin, wearing a flannel shirt and Dickies.

 

Tucker managed a wave. "Um, hey."

 

"Tucker..." Specs started, searching for a pleasant tone of voice. "You weren't supposed to come over tonight."

 

"A friend of yours?" Spec's father asked with a laugh that Tucker couldn't interpret.

 

"Yeah. Yes." Specs eyes narrowed. "We hang out sometimes. He stops by unannounced, even though he knows about Tuesdays. This is Tucker. Tucker, my parents. Well, now you should probably go."

 

"Don’t be rude Steven. He came all this way. Why don't you have dinner with us?" Spec's mother said. "We don't get to meet any of Steven's friends. We were starting to think he didn't have any." She and her husband laughed. Specs rubbed his temples under his glasses.

 

Tucker was feeling torn. On one hand, he immediately sensed that Spec's father wasn't the kind of guy who wanted his son living with another guy, in a "what would the neighbors think" kind of way. He certainly didn't want to do anything that would out Specs. On the other hand, the sheer situation comedy of the moment, and Specs' obvious discomfort, were hilarious. He was going to have to find a way to have fun with Specs while still keeping his secret safe.

 

"Well, Steven, go get him a plate." His father said. He pulled out a chair on the corner next to him. Specs rose as Tucker went to take a seat. In the brief moment that his father's line of vision was blocked, Specs gave Tucker a very clear look- the headmistress look he sometimes got when he was trying to get Tucker to shut up- that indicated the level of violence he would inflict if Tucker said a single thing wrong. Tucker gave him a less than reassuring wink.

 

"I'm Ray, this is my wife Angeline." Ray gave Tucker an excessively manly handshake. There was something smug about him, like he had a joke in the back of his head that only he thought was funny. Specs was keeping an eagle eye on them from the kitchen. Ray went back to eating. “So, what kind of work are you in?”

 

The first of several tests. “I do freelance, mostly scraping. Collection for metal and refurbishment type stuff. You can get a decent buck for computer parts or car parts with copper.”

 

“You know I've heard that.”

 

Specs put a plate and silverware in front of him unceremoniously before sitting back down at the corner next to Tucker. Despite the work he had put into dinner, he was losing his appetite fast.

 

“You know, you should really get into something like that, Steve.” His mother chimed in. “Maybe then you could help us out with the rent a bit.”

 

“Yeah, Steve, why not come to the junkyard with me?” Tucker teased, happy with his mouth full of food. Specs kicked him under the table.

 

“It’s no use, Ange. If he won’t work at the plant with me he sure as hell won’t work with his hands any other way.” Ray said. Tucker smirked. He thought he was doing a lovely job of not making any obvious jokes. “Did’ya give that girl a call this week?”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” His mother asked.

 

“I’m just trying to help you out.” Ray shook his head. “They’re not exactly beating down the door.”

 

“I just don’t want any more blind dates.”

 

“Jeez, kid. You know people start to wonder.” Ray said. “Guy your age, no girlfriend- you’re pushing thirty-”

 

“I’m twenty-four...”

 

“And still in college-”

 

“I’m going part-time…”

 

“For art. Just proves my point further. And look at you. Look at these plates. They have pictures of flowers on them-”

 

“They’re herbs…”

 

“And that shirt you’re wearing, it’s too tight-”

 

“You told me to put on weight…”

 

“Don’t argue with your father.”

 

“All I’m saying is people start to wonder.” Ray took a big bite of his food and smirked at Specs. Tucker could hear him mumble something with his mouth full about something looking ‘queer.’ He now very thoroughly understood why Specs didn’t like his father. A more tempermental Tucker would have punched him by now. Specs, however, had a look about him that suggested this was a regular Tuesday night. Tucker felt a strange compulsion to help him.

 

“I guess he hasn’t told you guys then, huh?” Tucker said. Specs’ face went pale, and he very firmly planted his foot on Tucker’s, as if to hold him back with whatever means possible. Specs felt like he was going to throw up. His parents looked at him as if in anticipation of something they already knew. “Spe- Steven is into older chicks.”

 

A moment of silence passed before Specs realized what was even said. He pulled his foot back away from Tucker and took a deep breath, but the nausea didn’t pass. His parents looked at each other, his mother appearing embarrassed while his father had regained his usual smug expression.

 

“Well, god, why didn’t you say so?” Ray laughed. “I’d’ve set you up with Charlie’s wife instead of his daughter.”

 

Specs could only muster a fake smile in response without hurling.

 

“You know, I’ve heard a lot of older women, divorced or whatever, they like kids like you. They want to date someone they can take care of, like a son.” Ray continued. Oh yes, Specs was going to throw up now. Despite that, and however false the pretenses under which it was being received, a guilty part of Specs enjoyed the rare sound of praise in his father’s voice. He was probably proud, thinking his son was nailing lonely middle-aged housewives.

 

The rest of dinner passed with less nagging and complaints from his parents than Specs was used to. He was still absolutely livid that Tucker even opened his mouth, but it didn’t stop him from appreciating the short lived, unspoken truce between him and his father. When they finally got up to leave, Ray even patted him on the back. His mother gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

 

“Alright kiddo,” Ray said. “We’ll see you next week. And hey, keep this guy around,” He shook Tucker’s hand on their way to the door. “It’ll do you good to be around a real man’s man.”

 

Specs and Tucker laughed and waved, fake as it could ever be, until his parents shut the front door behind them.

 

“I’m a man’s man alright.” Tucker said with a grin. Specs backhanded him in the chest.

 

“Are you crazy? I told you never to be here on a Tuesday night.”

 

“I thought it was Wednesday.” Tucker said with a shrug. Specs hit him again.

 

“Never, ever ever speak to my parents again.”

 

“No problems there, your dad’s a prick.” Tucker walked back to the couch and let himself fall over the arm into it. “Besides, I helped you get out of that date.”

 

“Yeah, so now I have to deal with him setting me up with his coworker’s wives instead of their daughters. Get your legs off the arm of the sofa. It’s called an arm for a reason.” Tucker could usually gauge how angry Specs was based on how much of a queen he was being, from a scale of one to Mariah Carey. This was very angry. He decided it was best not to explore the boundaries of his metric and sat up normally on the couch, but Specs was already looking pale and subdued.

 

At the crossroads of his nausea winding up and his blood-pressure winding back down, Specs reached the limits of his resilience. Without waiting to tell Tucker, he ran for the bathroom and fell on his knees in front of the toilet, falling fully victim to his panic attack. Tucker came in a minute later with a glass of water in his hand and knelt next to Specs while he lost his dinner. Specs didn’t shy away from a comforting rub on the back from Tucker. When he was finally done, he took the glass of water and sat back against the bathroom wall, exhausted.

 

“Mm-ack, is this soda water?” He said with a grimace when he took a sip.

 

“Just drink it, it’ll help.” Tucker said. He leaned back against the opposite wall from Specs and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry I made you puke.”

 

“It’s wasn’t you.” Specs hated himself for it, but he forgave Tucker for things just as quickly as he got mad at him. The man had puppy-dog eyes like no other. Not to mention, in his smug and idiotic way, he had been trying to help. Ironically, Tucker was the first guy Specs had introduced to his parents, and it worked out pretty well considering. Yet it also drove home how impossible it would be to ever tell them the truth. He couldn’t _really_ introduce anyone to them. His mother would assume he was gay specifically to spite her, and his father had access to a lot of dangerous industrial equipment to help express his feelings on the matter. Not to mention even the threat of them finding out had ended with him here on the bathroom floor.

 

“Can I ask you something?” He sighed. “Am I… I don’t know, am I weird?”

 

Tucker laughed a little, then considered the question more carefully. “Compared to what? You hunt ghosts and use lavender air freshener in your bathroom.”

 

“I mean… my parents and… you said I freak people out.”

 

“Oh, that.” Tucker regretted that, in retrospect. He was going to have to be real for second to make up for it. “You know, it’s like… I don’t stick around anyone for too long. So if I’ve been with you for this long it’s because you’re better than anyone else I’ve met.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be. I complimented you. Accept it and move on.”

 

“Just...humor me. I could use it.” Now it was Specs with the puppy-dog eyes, and Tucker was just as weak, if not weaker, when it came to resisting them. He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling to avoid eye contact.

 

“I don't know. You do what you want. You believe in stuff... doing the right thing or whatever. You care a lot. Too much, probably. So yeah, you're weird. But that's what I mean. You're better than anyone else I've met.”

 

Specs nudged Tucker’s foot with his own to get him to look back at him. “Thanks.”

 

“Don't get mushy.”

 

“You're better than anyone I've met too.”

 

“I said don't.” Tucker thought he might need to throw up next. There was a strange, bittersweet feeling of anxiety as he came to two conflicting realizations at once. The first was that he wasn’t going to get over Specs. It was true, he had never wanted to be with anyone else, and now that he was feeling it for the first time he couldn’t imagine leaving. He would stay with this guy, do Spectral Sightings, and sit on that couch watching movies every night for the rest of his life if he could. The second realization was that if he admitted any of this, even given the unlikely chance that Specs felt the same way, the expectation of a serious relationship would force Specs to confront his parents, and Tucker knew he couldn’t ask that of him. Somehow he was going to have to find a way to live between these two realities, because, couple or not, he felt more at home here than anywhere in the world. With a sigh, he gestured for the glass of soda water. "I'm going to need some of that."


	8. He's All I Got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another micro-chapter that carries us through the holiday season.

**2005: Christmas**

  


From: Tucker

12/24/05 (2:37)

i made cookies

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (2:44)

You better clean my kitchen.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (2:49)

i burned the house down, so you could say its clean

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (2:53)

You’re not as funny as you think you are

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (4:02)

My father and uncle are talking about my supposed cougar fetish. This is your fault.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (4:07)

i told you id come bail you out any time you want

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (4:14)

You know, somehow I don’t think your cover story about the president needing me to save Christmas is going to convince my family.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (4:21)

they believe youre straight, so id say theyre pretty gullible

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (4:25)

Now I have to delete this conversation.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (4:27)

tell me they don’t go through your phone

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (5:17)

are you alive or have they done some weird ritual sacrifice of you?

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (5:36)

Sorry, my dad wanted to play football. I think sports are his excuse to beat the shit out of me without getting arrested for it.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (5:40)

now i wish i had come. i would like that on film.

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (5:42)

I told you they’d probably be happier to see you than me

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (5:45)

but im having so much fun all alone on christmas eve

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (5:47)

I would much rather be there with you, believe me.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (5:51)

i do make the best cookies

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (5:52)

Save me some and I’ll smuggle out some leftover turkey.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (5:57)

its movie time. you’re missing the back-to-back fun of the gingerdead man, jack frost, and santa claws.

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (5:58)

How festive.

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (7:23)

Family Holiday Bingo: Racist remarks? Check. Unsolicited advice about how I should live my life? Check. Guilt trips about how much of a burden I am? Check. Making fun of paranormal investigation in front of me without directly addressing me? Check. Theorizing on how “the gays” are forcing themselves into society? Bingo.

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (7:26)

send the codeword and im there. we can make it to las vegas by christmas morning

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (7:44)

That’s ok. I have to struggle through this one somehow. Alcohol, maybe?

 

From: Tucker

12/24/05 (7:51)

i toast to your bravery

 

From: Speckles

12/24/05 (7:52)

Cheers

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (12:01)

feliz navidad, my brother

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (12:03)

Feliz Navidad.

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (10:57)

SANTA WAS HERE

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (11:34)

What did he bring you, little boy?

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (11:37)

oh wait. false alarm. it was just yesterdays mail.

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (11:39)

I don’t know what a strip sack is, but everyone here is losing their minds over it happening in this football game.

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (11:42)

sounds like something you need to see a doctor for

 

From: Turker

12/25/05 (12:09)

marco

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (12:11)

Polo

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (12:13)

when will you be home?

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (12:22)

Not sure

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (12:30)

i cant hold out. im going to eat your share of cookies

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (12:31)

Don't you dare

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (12:35)

0:-)

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (12:37)

Get some self-control. Or, christ, some self-respect.

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (12:38)

0:-(

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (1:33)

Code unicorn

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (1:35)

told you i dont respond to that. the real codeword please

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (1:36)

I swear to god

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (1:37)

wrong again. 2/3 strikes

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (1:44)

Please? I'm serious. Call me. I need an out.

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (2:03)

Thanks. They bought it. I'll be home asap. Please clean.

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (2:40)

you ok?

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (2:44)

Sorry. Stopped at Portos. Got your favorite cheesecake.

 

From: Tucker

12/25/05 (2:45)

you're the best

 

From: Speckles

12/25/05 (2:57)

I'm touched you made the extra effort to use an apostrophe

 

**2005/6: New Years Eve**

 

“Wait wait wait. Say it again.”  
  
“Feel.”

 

“Feeeeel. The letter is ‘e’.”

 

“That’s what I’m saying.”

 

“You’re saying fill.”

 

“Why is that funny?” Specs and Tucker sat on the roof of their shabby Glendale home, looking up at the Los Angeles sky in anticipation of the New Year’s fireworks. It was Specs’ idea to forgo the crowds and traffic and instead enjoy a panorama show from the best seat in town. He was surprised Tucker actually agreed. Last year Tucker had a party to be at with his own friends, but over the course of their last year living together he had spent less time with his other friends in favor of hanging out with Specs. So with a ladder leaning precariously against the gutter they had climbed onto the roof and huddled together under a blanket waiting for the show.

 

Somehow their conversation had wound around to one of Tucker’s least favorite topics: his accent. As far as he was concerned, he didn’t have one, but every once in awhile he would say a word and Specs would immediately point out his slight drawl. Turnabout being fair play, Specs had every right to tease Tucker. He had been subjected to daily doses of what was effectively the verbal equivalent of pigtail pulling. Tucker didn’t know how to talk about his feelings, and with the maturity of an elementary school student, he had settled for getting a rise out of Specs whenever possible.

 

“I’m sorry. It’s really not that strong.” Specs reassured him, but his giggling belied his attempt at an apology. Despite being the object of the joke, Tucker took a certain pride in his ability to make Specs laugh. He had a simple, unaffected way of laughing that made Tucker feel like he got to see a private side of him. He grinned in the dark as he felt Specs shudder in an attempt to catch his breath.

 

“Yeah. Whatever, Kowalski. Like you don’t sound like Louis Tully when you get all juiced up about your ezine.”

 

“Shh, it’s starting.” Twenty minutes before midnight, the first few fireworks started into the sky. From the roof they could see shows from the surrounding towns in every direction. Specs leaned forward and wrapped his arms around his knees, staring up keenly with an expression of undiluted happiness. Tucker didn’t consider himself a cynic, and he liked to think he was a relatively confident guy, but his friendship with Specs had proven both false. Specs’ ability to enjoy things like no one was watching made Tucker feel guilty for every time he had tried to act cool and collected. For as much as Specs worried what people thought of him, in the moment he could never seem to be anything but himself, and Tucker found himself jealous of that particular brand of confidence.

 

The fireworks came to a thundering end all around them, and they could hear the cheering and parties around them erupt into shouts of ‘Happy New Years.’ Specs turned and said it to Tucker, but he was drowned out by the noise. Tucker signed back: “same.” They had taken it upon themselves to learn a few new modes of communication, including sign language and Morse code, for whenever they needed to transmit private messages to each other. Tucker didn’t really see the point, but Specs treated each paranormal investigation like a plot from Mission Impossible, and he insisted there would be a moment where their secret codes were a matter of life and death. He had even developed a system of code words to describe specific situations, which Tucker took special delight in intentionally messing up to see Specs get flustered.

 

“What’s your resolution?” Specs said when the noise died down. He leaned back against the pitch of the roof next to Tucker.

 

“Don’t have one.”

 

“Oh come on.”

 

“Why can’t I just have regular goals all the time? I don’t need to make up a new one just because of some arbitrary shit like New Years.” Yes, he was being stubbornly cynical again. He wanted to be more genuine like Specs, but it wasn't going to happen over night. Maybe 'be less of an asshole' could be his resolution.

 

“I wasn’t aware you even had ‘regular goals’.”

 

“I want what everyone in LA wants. To get famous.”

 

Specs' tone shifted down into one more serious. "Is that why you left? Home, I mean."

 

"Did I need a reason to leave the meth capital of the world?" Tucker said sarcastically. "I want the same thing as you. To crack the big one.”

 

"I'm not doing this for the fame-"

 

"Don't lecture me-"

 

"I'm doing it because the public needs to kno-mmff." Tucker rolled over and held his hand over Specs’ mouth. He had heard the speech 365 times in the past year. Specs only laughed and pushed him away, confirming that he said it just as often to be a pain in the ass as he did to actually argue a case. “All I’m saying is that fame is a side benefit, not the end itself.”

 

“So we want the same side benefits.” Tucker said. Another zinger completely wasted on the most oblivious man alive.

 

“Yes. This year. We’re going to find something real. I can tell.”

 

Tucker silently reveled in the promise -no, the assumption- of another year together. The feeling of being at home, foreign and uncharacteristically sentimental as it may be, was beginning to make sense to him. He offered a manly fist-bump to sum up his feelings.

  


**2006: Valentine’s Day**

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:21)

Happy Valentines Day <3

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:27)

u2 tiny. dave taking you somewhere?

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:28)

Dinner and a show. Do you have a date?

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:30)

nah, im just gonna pass this year

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:33)

That’s a first. This roommate is turning you into Bridget Jones. When do I get to meet him?

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:35)

never, if you’re gonna say something

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:36)

Ask him to dinner

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:37)

Or a movie

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:37)

Or your future wedding :p

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:40)

its not happening

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:44)

Well don’t give up hope. Daddy says hi.

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:45)

tell him hi

 

From: Beth

2/14/06 (2:47)

He says he’ll be your Valentine :’D

 

From: Tucker

2/14/06 (2:48)

tell him i accept

  



	9. The Voice of Experience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys make a strange new acquaintance.

  
April 2006  
  
Specs didn’t approve of celebrity idol worship. In the land of fame and fortune, which he had been born into by happenstance, he cared very little for tabloids and gossip. It was one of a handful of things he was unintentionally stuck-up about. Yet for all his superiority, he wasn’t as far above it as he believed. He simply substituted actors and rock stars with mediums and paranormal experts. He owned the collected works of Edward Cayce, wrote fan letters to Hans Holzer, and had a poster of Ingo Swann in his bedroom. Not his office. His bedroom. So when he found himself at the breakfast table sharing coffee with a real medium, it was all he could do to keep himself from being, as Tucker so often put it, a “huge fucking nerd.”  
  
The circumstances that had brought Elise to their rescue were fuzzy for him at best. Between the possible concussion and surrealism of it all he was still struggling to put the pieces together. What he did know was that a case he assumed would be a simple overnight monitor turned into The Exorcist pretty quickly, and Elise had appeared like an angel out of the machine to save their sorry asses. Faster than he could process what was happening, she had completely rearranged everything he thought he knew about the afterlife. There was a beyond, like a veil just past their own reality, and she could see through that veil. He had so many questions to ask. So many articles he would have to revise with footnotes. Instead of any of these things, however, he simply stared at her.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?” Elise asked gingerly. She cupped a mug of coffee in her hands, gracious for the excessive hospitality Specs and Tucker were showing her.  
  
“No, he’s always like that. Too many head injuries from kiddie sports leagues.” Tucker tapped Specs on the forehead like he was checking for an echo. Specs swatted him away. Though it was somewhat true. He could picture a montage of himself being tackled, elbowed, and otherwise throttled in every sport from ages four to fourteen.  
  
“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Some of us didn’t sleep through half of the investigation.” Specs shot Tucker some side-eye, but he was already staring at the viewfinder from his camera, playing back the footage from the night before. They had all agreed to have breakfast together and discuss the details of their new partnership, but their conversation quickly changed to Elise trying to explain the experiences of the last twelve hours. With patience and poise she described her life as a medium, what she knew, what she could see, and even what had caused her to hesitate in helping the Brenners.  
  
“I thought I could hide from the dark, but when I saw you boys helping that family, well, it reminded me of why I used my gift in the first place.” She placed a hand on Tucker’s shoulder, and it was just as much a gesture to ask for comfort as it was to offer it. He gave her a weary smile. “You two are really eager to help people, aren’t you?”  
  
“Sure. It’s what Spectral Sightings is all about.” Specs perked up. “Well, at least for me.”  
  
“Hey, me too.”  
  
“Like you’re not looking for footage to send to channel four right now.”  
  
“I could find a lot of safer ways to get famous if that was all I wanted.” Tucker pointed to the icepack on his knee.  
  
“Hey now. The best way to keep each other safe is to have each others' backs.” Elise said. No more than several hours into their acquaintance and her word could silence their year and half long bickering streak. Their instantaneous respect for her came from a combination of her station in the paranormal world and her inherent grace. She'd reprimanded them now twice that morning, and Specs couldn't help but acknowledge that she was right. For whatever reason he and Tucker fought incessantly and still somehow couldn't stand to be apart. "No, what I saw from you two last night was courage, plain and simple. I could use partners like that."  
  
The boys inwardly beamed at her praise.  
  
"Um, I'll go check on the food." Specs said, looking for an awkward way around saying anything that might sound arrogant. He hopped up from the table and went to the kitchen, where Pillsbury cinnamon rolls were rising in the oven. Elise turned to Tucker.  
  
"You've lost someone, haven't you?" She asked gently. Tucker's first instinct was to look over the kitchen counter to check if Specs could hear them. He could feel himself tense under years of self-conditioning to shut up and man up, immediately triggering his sensitive topic avoidance protocol. But something about the knowing look she gave him, especially in light of everything she had just admitted about losing her husband, made him consciously resist his old urges. His second instinct was to be a bit creeped out. He looked over his shoulder as if expecting to see dead people. Elise chuckled quietly. "No, I don't see anyone there. I've spent a lot of time around death and loss. I can see it in your face."  
  
Tucker sighed. "That obvious?"  
  
"Well, my job does require a higher degree of intuition than most." She patted his arm comfortingly. "I noticed how you reacted when I told that girl her mother was with her."  
  
He felt a sting that reminded him why he didn't open up more. For a moment he looked away from her, allowing himself to be distracted by the adorable sight of Specs, oblivious Specs, bobbing his head to some unheard tune while he iced cinnamon rolls. "And you're sure you don't see her?" He finally asked. His level of discomfort was inversely proportional to the register of his voice, which was now at a low growl.  
  
"I'm sorry. I can try to reach out to her if you-"  
  
"No." Tucker said with a finality that suggested he not only wanted to decline the offer, but to end the conversation entirely. Specs whisked back around the counter into the dinette with a tray of cinnamon rolls perched in his oven-mitted hands.  
  
"Sorry this is all we have." He delivered the food in front of them and started fanning it with an oven mitt. "Tucker usually eats the whole tube himself but I'm sure he can bring himself to share."  
  
Tucker was now exhausted of his willpower to fight with Specs. He simply plucked two cinnamon rolls from the tray and offered to grab some for Elise too, careful that she wouldn't burn her fingers. They ate in silence for a while, with Specs occasionally needing to remind himself not to stare at Elise. She licked her fingers clean and gestured to the camera.  
  
"That's a pretty impressive little set-up. Steven was telling me you made it yourself." Specs had already accepted that Elise would call him by his real name. He had attempted to politely suggest she call him Specs a few times that morning, but ultimately gave up. She was from a more traditional generation. It wasn't like when Tucker did it to annoy him. As soon as he had found out that Specs made up his own nickname, he started calling him everything but 'Specs', specifically to bug him. Most of Tucker's names for him made Specs bristle, but the few that could be construed as affectionate got a begrudging pass, including variations of 'bro' and Tucker's apparent favorite, 'Kowalski'.  
  
"Yeah, most of my equipment I make myself." Tucker picked up the head cam and turned it around as if to show it off. "I have bigger rigs out in the garage. Cameras that pick up minuscule changes in heat, register slight movements. I'm working on a setup that will trigger flash bulbs in the event of significant atmospheric changes consistent with typical paranormal signifiers."  
  
Where Specs rambled about ethics much to Tucker's disinterest, Tucker rambled about equipment, but Elise seemed genuinely impressed.  
  
"Do you want to come see?" Tucker said.  
  
"I'm sure she doesn't want to go out into that garage. It's probably not safe, besides." Specs countered, then spoke to Elise. "He’s turned my garage into the set of Sanford and Son.”  
  
"At least my junk contributes some money to the rent on _your_ garage."  
  
"Why don't you bring in that thermal camera, then? I'd love to see how you made it." Elise said, employing her best diplomacy skills. Tucker happily acquiesced. He and Specs were both eager to gain her good opinion. Like schoolboys looking to get their picture pinned on the fridge, they had taken turns bragging about their accomplishments all morning. As Tucker excused himself to the garage Specs began to worry he was going to lose whatever unspoken competition they had entered into. "And you. A writer- a journalist. A noble and thankless profession."  
  
"Yeah, well, it's doesn't really mean much in the paranormal investigation world anymore. It's all video these days." Specs shrugged.  
  
"Why do you do that?" Elise asked in a tone that almost sounded scolding. "Put yourself down, let him put you down? You know you're good at what you do. I say, never hide your talents. Well, Benjamin Franklin said it first, but I agree."  
  
"Only my talents aren't useful or relevant." The numbers didn't lie, in Specs' opinion. Since they had started favoring audio-visual content over written on the website, their viewer counts and online presence had almost doubled. In only four months they were more popular than ever before thanks to Tucker's shaky cam techniques. He wasn't sure why he was sharing it with Elise, but their recent success was weighing on his mind since January, and he didn't want to tell Tucker about it, considering it was really _his_ success that was bothering Specs. "I used to draw for the zine. What good is that now that Tucker has a camera for every different hour of sunlight?"  
  
"I wouldn't say that's useless at all." Elise got a thoughtful look about her. "No, in fact I would say that's just what I need. Do you mind showing me your work?"  
  
Specs paused for a moment, unsure she actually meant to say what she said. “Uh, sure, right, it’s in my bag- my sketchbook.” He rummaged through the messenger bag that rested on the fourth chair at the table looking for his contribution to today’s impromptu show-and-tell. “This is all casual, nothing from my investigations. I have a filing system for those.”  
  
Elise took his sketchbook from him and started flipping through. Specs had opted to skip a semester of school to focus exclusively on Spectral Sightings, but sketching was a way to keep his nervous hands busy- a much needed source of meditation. He was a bit embarrassed to show Elise his more personal work. The last four months worth of drawing was mostly still lifes of things around his apartment, like a visual record of how creatively stale he had been recently.  
  
“Do you think you could draw like this, on the spot, from a description?” Elise held up the sketchpad, which was opened to a sloppy sketch of a bird Specs had drawn during his last manic all-nighter.  
  
“Like a composite?”  
  
“Exactly like that. If you could draw what I see, it could be a way to help our clients connect to what’s going on. So often I find I’m unable to communicate what I’m experiencing to people who need to know what they’re facing.” She didn’t realize it, but Elise had just strung together the three words that Specs aspired to most: help, connect, and communicate. Like a mantra he yearned to fulfill, those three words had not only become the Spectral Sightings slogan, but a fundamental part of his identity, mostly because he felt he fell short of them all the time. It seemed to him that there was something that kept him separate from everyone else, from the time he was little, and he desperately wanted to bridge the gap by any means possible. He believed his writing was the only way to achieve this, but if his sketches could help Elise help others- maybe there was a way he could connect after all.  
  
Elise smiled as she turned the page on a portrait of Tucker sleeping. Specs had formally asked Tucker if he would pose for him once, about a year ago, but Tucker laughed it off and Specs was too embarrassed to ask again. He figured catching him asleep was the only way he could get him to sit still long enough anyway. A week ago he got his opportunity when he found Tucker snoozing in the back of the van with his arms around a remote viewing monitor like a kid who had sugar-crashed in the middle of playing with his favorite toy.  
  
“That’s, uh…” He started nervously. They were distracted by a clatter from the garage, and Tucker came struggling back into the house, shaking a cord off from around his ankle. Elise tactfully turned the page of Specs’ sketchbook to hide the picture of Tucker. “Do you know how many hoarders are crushed to death in this country every year?” Specs shot over his shoulder.  
  
“What a beautiful way to go.” Tucker planted his thermal camera on the table in front of Elise, as if to redirect the attention back to his art. “This is actually a modified vintage Minolta-”  
  
“Why don’t you tell her what you call it?” Specs leaned back with a smirk and sipped his coffee. Tucker had the rare turn of being embarrassed.  
  
“I don’t call it any-”  
  
“That one’s Edna, right?”  
  
“No, this one’s Minnie. Edna is the Edina and you know it.” Tucker realized too late that it was a trap. Specs knew he wouldn’t be able to resist correcting him. Not only did he have pets names for all of his cameras, but they were all diminutive terms for each camera’s company name. He had explained them all to Specs in the hope that the information would be kept between them. So much for trust.  
  
Elise soaked in the company, bickering aside. It had been years since she had stepped out of her house for a social call. While Specs and Tucker reeled from the terror of the night before and the change in everything they knew, she was still catching up with the unfamiliar feeling of hope and comfort. She could sense the formation of a rag-tag family, brought together out of their mutual need to replace something each had lost, or never had to begin with. Specs and Tucker had a great head start going. Whether they were aware of it yet or not, they had already tethered themselves together like two parts of one whole.  
  
What started as breakfast ended up a day long conversation between the three of them as they shared stories of their experiences. There wasn't a moment that one couldn't think of something they wanted to say to the other. Specs started to feel something he hadn't felt since he first met Tucker- something he had been taking for granted since that time. For as difficult as it felt for him to connect with other people, with Tucker and Elise it felt so perfectly easy. He took a moment to consciously appreciate what Tucker was to him. It wasn't ideal- they fought constantly, and there was a weird...something between them that Specs couldn't bring his mind to accept without serious dissonance- but Tucker was probably the only person who made him feel comfortable. He even patiently listened as Specs told his ‘first encounter’ story for perhaps the hundredth time.  
  
“Honestly it’s one of the first things I remember. I guess that’s why it’s such a big part of my life. You know, most kids lay awake at night, afraid of something in their closet or under their bed, but it’s all in their imagination. The silhouette in the closet is the robe hanging on a hook. The knocking on the window is a branch. That’s why no one ever believed me.” He told the story like it was the first time every time. “At first it was just the one. He stood at the end of my bed every night and just… stared at me. I knew he was real because I could hear him breathing, like a heavy smoker. That went on for years. Then when I was in the fourth grade, I started being allowed to stay up later- not that it ever mattered because I barely slept as it was. But I could stay downstairs and watch tv for a while before bed, and that’s when I started to notice the second ghost. This one was more active. He would pull out the kitchen chairs, open the cabinets. He touched me one time. I went into the kitchen to get a snack, and while I was looking in the refrigerator I felt him press on my back, like he was pushing the palm of his hand against me to check if I was real or something. For some reason though, he felt less threatening than the one in my bedroom. That one- that was the one that kept me up at night. The older I got the angrier he seemed to get at me. If I came to bed late I would see him standing at the end of the hallway, like he was waiting for me. If I actually managed to fall asleep he would start shaking the footboard of my bed.”  
  
“Did you tell your parents any of this? When the behavior became more aggressive?” Elise asked.  
  
“Not right away. I had been telling them for years before, but they just thought I was scared of the dark. By the time he started getting more aggressive they thought I was old enough that I should have gotten over it. It wasn’t until I started reading more about ghosts, trying to figure out what I could do to stop him, that they started paying attention. They thought the books were the problem though. They made me see a psychiatrist. Obviously that didn’t do anything except give me a complex.” He paused for a moment, a crestfallen look on his face, like he was either embarrassed or disappointed. Tucker conceded that he did, indeed, have a complex or four. “But I didn’t stop my research. I forced myself to read everything there was about the subject. I watched scary movies. All to just, desensitize myself, and to give me some kind of foundation for how to combat it. But I was still scared, right up until I was fifteen. God, I remember that like it was yesterday. I was laying awake, bedroom ghost was watching me, as usual, and then he suddenly just...left. Walked right out the door. And I heard this song, like a woman was humming, and it was all around me. And I heard her say my name. She told me I was brave, and I… well I just wasn’t afraid anymore.”  
  
It was well past dinner when they finally brought the night to a close. Elise reminded them profusely to consider her idea of wearing a shirt and tie to future investigations, which Specs earnestly agreed to while Tucker failed to get in a dissenting opinion. When Elise finally left the boys felt like they were waking up from a strange dream. Their mutual excitement was obvious. Even Tucker couldn't fall asleep right away. They ended up chatting in the kitchen for a long time after Elise was gone.  
  
Tucker sat on the kitchen island kicking his legs. It was something Specs didn't really approve of, but one of the rare battles he chose not to fight. He just couldn't see why someone as tall as Tucker needed to sit up any higher than he already was. Nevertheless, Specs leaned against the stove across from him and enjoyed the treat of Tucker been uncharacteristically chatty.  
  
"Tellin' you though, that Brenner tape is going to be a goldmine." He said as he happily munched on some Goldfish.  
  
"Thought you told Elise that wasn't what it was about."  
  
"It's not. Side benefits, remember?" Tucker winked. No reaction. "I mean, I guess I haven't technically asked them to sign a release yet. No one's gonna believe it if I have to blur out their faces." He picked up the viewfinder next to him and motioned Specs to come over and have a look. The recording re-winded back, revealing the events as Specs remembered them: Quinn walked, in her casts, out into the hallway, then into her father's bedroom, then hid the camera in the closet and snuck up behind Tucker. But when Tucker played the tape back, the screen simply showed the cracked spackle ceiling of the Brenner's apartment. Tucker toggled the play button. The timestamp stayed true to the timeline of the night, however.  
  
"What'd you do to it?" Specs asked.  
  
Tucker fast forwarded the recording. No change. He looked spooked. "I didn't do anything. It was the same all day, you saw it."  
  
After a long, eerie pause, Specs finally said, "Even the ghost doesn't want you to be famous."


	10. Running With the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker and Specs leave the fate of their evening to lady luck, leading to temptations neither know how to handle.

**May 2006**

 

"How do I look?"

 

"Like a mormon."

 

Specs stood awkwardly at the dressing room door, picking at the ill-fitted white button up that hung on his narrow shoulders. He dropped his arms in disappointment at Tucker's reaction. Truth be told, Tucker was having flashbacks to his adolescent crush on Kyle MacLachlan in Twin Peaks, but he couldn't let Specs know that, especially after Specs had dragged him to Macy's against his will.

 

"You barely even looked at me." Specs huffed. Tucker leaned against the opposite wall, Gameboy Advance in hand, with about a dozen ties slung around his shoulders. He shrugged.

 

"You look good in whatever. Who cares?" The semi-compliment came out in a mumble, like a defense mechanism he couldn't fully control. Specs rolled his eyes and walked up in front of Tucker. Accepting the fact that Tucker's attention wasn't going to break from Doom II, Specs pulled the first tie from around his shoulders and started putting it on.

 

"When I'm done we can find an associate to help size you."

 

"Just need a tie."

 

"We've been over this. You can't wear a tie with your hawaiian shirt."

 

"It has buttons."

 

"That doesn't make it a dress shirt."

 

"Sure it does." Tucker knew he would eventually have to give in and buy a shirt and tie, but it would be for Elise's sake. He was enjoying getting Specs flustered in the meantime. After a year and half together he expected Specs to realize when he was intentionally giving him a hard time, but Specs was just anxious enough that the mere suggestion of Tucker showing up to a job in a hawaiian shirt got him red in the face. Tucker barely concealed a smirk when he heard Specs give a heavy, defeated sigh. He spent the next few minutes steaming as he struggled in and out of the ties Tucker had picked out for him.

 

"You have horrible taste." Specs grimaced at a particularly gaudy blue tie with bananas on it.

 

"Sorry, Coco, I missed the couture rack." Tucker said. Specs hooked the tie back over Tucker's shoulders and replaced it with a plain black one. This one seemed to stick. Where Tucker preferred things loud and kitschy, Specs wanted plain, safe, and monochromatic. Tucker checked him out subtly over the top of his Gameboy. It wasn't a perfect fit, as perfect to him was skin tight, but the overall appeal of formal wear was enough to get him going. "Now you definitely look like a mormon."

 

"Well then I hope you like green Jell-o, because we're wearing the same thing."

 

"Not a chance." Tucker had made his share of concessions for Elise. He was not going to go around dressed like the Blue’s Brothers. "Why don't we just ride around on a tandem bike and hand out ice cream cones too?"

 

Specs didn't deign to give him a response. He marched back into the dressing room and began to change. Tucker came up and knocked on the door. "Hey, bud, I'm gonna go look for my stuff now." He said. The sound of Specs changing sped up.

 

"Hang on, I'll be out in a second."

 

"Just wait here."

 

"But you'll-"

 

"Do it wrong? No offense, but I think extra large men's clothes are a bit outside your wheelhouse."

 

Tucker used his leg-length advantage to put some distance between him and Specs so he could shop in peace for a few minutes. He would buy the white shirt and black tie if it meant sparing Specs an ulcer or two, but he was going to put his own spin on it as a visual last word in the argument. After a while he noticed Specs had followed and was watching him from afar, his spectacled face peeking over the tops of clothing racks. Tucker pretended to not see him and started picking up the ugliest things he could find.

 

Specs lurked outside the dressing room while Tucker tried on his clothes. The longer he waited, the more fantastical his imagination of what atrocity Tucker was trying on grew. It didn't help that Tucker was tossing silk shirts and velveteen ties over the door. When he finally emerged, however, Specs was both relieved and unexpectedly impressed. Despite the combination with ripped black jeans and converse, and the mohawk which he still had not grown out, Tucker looked good in a trim white shirt, tie, and suspenders. He had learned to dress himself out of necessity following years of his father struggling to keep him in  properly fitting clothing. They didn't have enough money to keep up with his uncanny growth spurts, so he spent much of his adolescence in jeans that came up to his shins and shirts that pinched him in the shoulders. Dressing himself became one of the many things Tucker had to handle on his own.

 

"Oh, I didn't realize you were there." Tucker said with a straight face.

 

"You look... good." Specs didn't know what it meant that his mind was eagerly searching for something to criticize. "Are you sure about the suspenders?"

 

Tucker looked down at himself and tugged his pants up. "Yeah. These don't stay up."

 

"Maybe you need a smaller size."

 

"Nah. None of my pants stay up. I don't have an ass." Tucker said. Specs begged to differ, not that he paid attention to such things. He was working very hard to keep his mind from wandering down less than platonic paths, though he couldn't be blamed for the occasional carnal image that would pop into his head late at night, as men are wont to have. True, he had pictured a certain someone's ankles around his neck, and true, he needed an extra long shower when said someone decided to bake, or fix, or build, or do basically anything without a shirt on, but those thoughts could be managed- contained. If he didn't know better he would almost suspect Tucker were teasing him intentionally, but that couldn't be the case. He was quite positive he wasn't Tucker's type. Tucker wasn't objectively cool, but he was cooler than Specs, and better looking too, as far as he was concerned. They played the same sport in entirely different leagues. Specs couldn't afford to get his hopes up about something so unlikely. It wasn't worth the risk.

 

The rest of the evening found them both apathetic about what to do next. It had been two weeks since they joined forces with Elise, and they had spent that time picking her brain over dinner almost every night. It was obvious she was still easing herself back into the world of psychic readings and house hauntings. Her complexion was getting warmer, however, and her smile broader with each passing day. Having only know her a short while, the boys couldn't fully appreciate how much their appearance in her life was helping her. The simple fact of having company for dinner was mending years of wounds. Tucker was charming her with his gentle manner, despite his rather transparent attempts to appear tough. Specs was endearingly self-conscious, yet uninhibited in his thirst for knowledge, making him an exhausting but rewarding conversation partner. She couldn't help but feel she had suddenly been blessed with two surrogate sons. This night in particular, however, the boys mutually agreed that they should give Elise a break. They were enjoying her company as much as she enjoyed theirs, but they didn't want to veer into becoming an imposition.

 

After a dinner stop at the ever reliable Taste of Puebla, the course of the night was put to a coin toss- or, in this case, a peso toss, since the friendly owner Gerardo was the only one with a coin on him. Tucker and Specs stood under the awning of the restaurant, using the light from the window to ensure fair judgement on the outcome of the peso toss.

 

“All right, there’s a bird eating a snake and a funny looking guy.” Tucker said, showing off the sides of the peso.

 

“That’s Miguel Hidalgo.”

 

“No one likes a know-it-all, Kowalski. Call.” He flicked the peso in the air and caught it just as Specs called for tails, which Tucker accepted as “bird with the snake.” He gestured for Specs to hold out his hand.

 

“Wait. Before you reveal… can we do vetoes?” Specs asked.

 

“Okay, but only one, and you have to say it now.”

 

“Santa Monica.” Specs chose his veto based on the bad memories of awkward family day trips and violent sunburns he had acquired at the beach as a child. Sure, the sun had gone down already, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

 

“Alright, I choose home. I mean, we can go home eventually, but you don’t get to pick it.” Specs begrudgingly agreed by holding out his hand. Tucker flipped the coin on top of it and revealed. “Miguel wins.”

 

Specs groaned, but it couldn’t be too bad. Knowing Tucker they would either end up at the bowling alley, where he liked to program childish nicknames into the computer so he could embarrass Specs when “Pin Sitter” beat “Ball Juggler,” or they would be dropping in on Tucker’s favorite junk dealer, Vern, who enabled his unhealthy hoarding habits. Specs waited by the van while Tucker returned the the peso and said buenas noches to Gerardo.

 

“We’re not driving.” Tucker said when he came back out, tapping Specs on the shoulder and pointing across the street. Past the steamy manholes, stray cat, and crowd of possible drug dealers sat cheap looking little bar flashing the neon title of The Locker Room. Specs recognized the name. It’s proximity to LACC made it a favorite of his fellow students. He had always made a point of avoiding it for that reason. Tucker was already crossing the street, however. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

 

“I don’t know. It seems… grimy.” Specs said. Tucker turned back around and led him by the arm into the bar. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t gone out for a drink together before, but they always stuck to local, quiet places with that blueberry beer Specs liked so much. This was a shabby penny pitcher college bar, with cracked vinyl bar stools and a little karaoke stage made out of particleboard and two by fours; neither the cozy brewpub nor the raging LA dance scene. Somehow it suited Tucker perfectly. Specs decided to make the best of it for his sake.

 

Tucker led him up to a pair of stools at the far end of the bar and patted one, offering it to him. A cloud of dust plumed up off the top. Specs opted to remove his hoodie and lay that over the stool as an extra layer of protection before he sat down. The people around them were easily three to four years younger than them, and while it technically wasn't that much of a difference, Specs was beginning to feel a bit awkward about being a fifth year sophomore. He was planning on getting his associates eventually. Spectral Sightings was the priority though, and it was certainly growing. He had acquired two new employees already. Still, a part of him, urged on by the smell of cheap beer, suddenly felt compelled to finish up his degree sooner rather than later.

 

"Heh-hey, Tucker, long time no see." The bartender came over and offered a handshake. Tucker certainly seemed to be on friendly terms with a lot of middle-aged business owners all over LA. Specs watched with a mixture of amusement and jealousy as Tucker talked his way into an off-the-record drink special. They each ended up with a Captain and Cola, or, given the stature of this particular bar, a Largo and Pibb. Specs made a face after the first sip. Tucker laughed.

 

“Best my money can buy.” He nudged Specs’ glass, ushering him to take another sip. A suppressed part of him was definitely trying to pretend they were on a date. He would never intentionally manipulate Specs, but he would revel in the brief times when he could show him off in public, where, to the average stranger, they might appear to be a couple. It wasn’t healthy, but it was all he got.

 

“Your money bought me mouthwash with corn syrup in it.”

 

“And you’re very fucking welcome.” Tucker grinned. Specs took another repulsed sip.

 

“So this was your life before meeting me? Karaoke bars, drinking petroleum? Sad."

 

“Good thing you brought me home and made a proper woman out of me." Tucker said. Out of hundreds of shots fired, one had to hit home eventually, but Tucker was so used to flirting without reaction that he failed to notice Specs cough on his drink. Between their little dress-up adventure and the fact that Tucker was taking him for a drink, context and the overt nature of the comment all combined to strike Specs just the right way. He looked Tucker over out of the corner of his eye. Surely he had only meant it as a joke, especially wearing that 'I'm so clever' smirk of his. It was always a joke, and Specs was his comedic fodder, a play thing to be batted around by his quicker wit and domineering hold on their conversations. Specs was complicit, of course. He ate up every bit of their banter. He knew Tucker well enough to know that a lot of it was put on, and he played along accordingly, but somehow Tucker always had the upper hand, and Specs wondered if he knew how much it drove him crazy.

 

Specs had always identified this feeling as pure annoyance. The platonic nature of their relationship left that as the only option. The cheap alcohol was getting to him though, and watching Tucker scan the bar with that wicked smirk and easy confidence left Specs with an impression of temptation followed by immediate frustration. Tucker was a friend, and an important one at that. So no touching. Or thinking about touching. Smirk or no smirk.

 

"You still with me, weirdo?" Tucker waved a hand in front of Specs' face. He had noticed Specs become quiet, his shoulders tensed and rigid. Specs snapped back to reality and let his impression of Tucker fade back to their usual dynamic. He pushed Tucker’s hand away, agitated.

 

“You’re the one trying to poison me.”

 

“So… refill?”

 

Specs laughed. He lost the peso toss, and according to informal contract, this meant it was Tucker’s night. “Sure.”

 

By the third refill The Locker Room special had lost it’s acerbic zip, as had Specs. Tucker was partial to drunk Specs because he was all the nerdy with none of the anxiety. It came with all of the usual rambling about the afterlife, the passion for his work, but without any of his meager attempts at posturing himself. Asking Specs inane questions while he was drunk was one of Tucker’s favorite new past times, so they spent considerable time, and received considerable stares, as he asked Specs about his opinion on whether dogs went to heaven. He was sure anyone within earshot would assume Specs was blazed, but they didn’t realize he sounded like this even when he was ice-cold sober.

 

Tucker ended up cutting him off when Specs said something about his drink tasting good. With an arm around his shoulders, Tucker led his friend back across the street and sat him on the curb while he opened the back door of the van. They had an overnight kit prepared, of course, by Specs in anticipation of overnight stakeouts. It included a sleeping bag for each of them, toothbrushes, floss (for some reason Tucker didn’t understand), and midnights snacks. In this case it would have to be the emergency too drunk to drive kit though. Tucker wasn’t quite the lightweight Specs was, but even he was finding himself less than coordinated as he tried to unroll one of the sleeping bags. They were definitely going to need to spend the night in the Taste of Puebla take-out parking spot.

 

He lifted Specs under the arms and leaned him up against the bumper of the van when his bed was made. “Alright, you gotta go the rest of the way on your own now. You’re fatter than you look.” Tucker poked him in the stomach, but Specs’ reaction time was too slow to push him away. His body sunk forward into Tucker’s chest and he nestled his forehead into his collarbone, mumbling something incoherent. Tucker looked around if anyone could see them. He was a drink shy of poor decision making, sober enough that his ego was still communicating with his id, which was stirring with temptation as Specs gently slid his hand up Tucker’s side in a drunken attempt to sit himself up straight. He was too sloppy to know what he was doing, but his body language was malleable, comfortable pushed against his friend. Tucker took a deep breath of chilly night air to clear his head. He was going to have to do everything by his own power.

 

Tucker climbed into the back of the van and tugged Specs in behind him. If it didn’t look like anything strange wasn’t going on before, it probably did now. He tried to lay Specs down on his sleeping bag as carefully as he could so as not to hurt any of the delicate equipment in the van. He had priorities, of course.

 

"Gotta brush." Specs mumbled, trying to sit back up again. He had priorities too.

 

"You'd choke on the toothbrush." Tucker knelt next to him and debated for a second whether he should take off Specs' shirt. Something told him it wouldn't be a good idea, if for no other reason than to spare himself the frustration of seeing and not touching. He settled on just taking off his shoes. Specs flinched and giggled as each shoe came off, apparently a bit ticklish. Tucker, rough edges worn down with the haze of alcohol, warmed at the sound of Specs' laughter. He was indulging in the closest thing he could get to an intimate moment, however false it was, letting the all too familiar ache of want hold him for a moment. He tried not to look Specs in the eye when he took his glasses off, but Specs, motivated by some unconscious memory of the fact that Tucker had flirted with him that night, used his last bit of energy to reach up and run his hand across Tucker's temple. Tucker closed his eyes and tried to center all his energy on resisting. Specs' reflexes were on autopilot, responding to their proximity and position in the way that seemed natural in his current state. His fingers curled just behind the nape of Tucker's neck in a weak attempt to pull him closer.

 

"Not a good idea." Tucker said mournfully, pulling Specs' hand away. He couldn't bring himself to take advantage. Maybe something could happen and they could work it out in the aftermath. But that wasn't what he wanted. It was what he was working so hard to avoid, in fact. With a gentle pat on the head, he drew away from Specs and leaned back against the van door, as if to catch his breath. There was an immediate pang of a familiar instinct. He could just run. That was standard procedure when he felt he was getting too close, caring too much. Yet he’d never put down roots quite the same way before, and the thought of how devastated Specs would be filled him with guilt. He knew what it felt like to be abandoned, so much so that the resentment shaped him into adulthood, but like many traumas, he had internalized it to the point of emulating it. He had run away from people that cared about him before. He wasn’t sure if he could do it again.

 

He looked back at Specs, who was already fast asleep. The writing was on the wall- he had known it for months- that this was the man who would ruin him. He gulped back what he pretended wasn’t a lump in his throat. “You’re gonna break my heart, Kowalski.”

 

It seemed wise to climb into the passenger seat to sleep. Better to avoid temptation, not to mention he couldn't bring himself to look at Specs anymore. Snuggled in under his sleeping bag, combat boots hanging by the shoelaces around the rearview mirror, Tucker closed his eyes and tried to relax, but his eyelids flickered with anxiety. Alcohol apparently cured Specs' insomnia but passed it on to Tucker. Frustrated, he looked around for something to do. His eyes settled on Specs' messenger bag hanging around the headrest of the driver's side seat. It would only be further punishment, but Tucker couldn't resist the urge to grab his sketchpad. He started flipping through the pages of drawings that Specs had been covering, private and embarrassed, for the past few months. His imprecise, colorful and accessible style made Tucker smile. Specs worked very hard to keep up his appearances, but his art, and often his actions, belied his formal affectations.

 

Tucker turned the page to discover Specs' recent picture of him. Under normal circumstances Tucker would be mad that he drew him while he was asleep, but despite faint embarrassment, the picture reminded him of Specs' special brand of friendship. What they saw in each other, to an outsider, was probably a mystery- especially considering they each possessed a delicate pride and wielded rather harsh criticism with ease. Tucker had a tendency to dominate everything he touched, and Specs a tendency to resign when challenged, but in practice it was Specs who pulled the strings, motivated by an unrelenting stubbornness that matched and overpowered Tucker's own. When he wanted something, be it a picture or a tie color, he worked patiently until he got it. He was the power behind the throne. Tucker thrived on flattery, but Specs gave no empty compliments, so when a compliment, either by action or word, was granted it left Tucker to believe Specs' good opinion was more valuable than most. Tucker had every reason to believe this friend wanted what was best for him, even if though came at the cost of his ego at times, and that fact was a consolation despite the unprecedented sway Specs held on him.

  
With that bittersweet comfort, Tucker was ready to sleep. He flipped a few pages back to a self-portrait Specs had done, and after a look over his shoulder, he ripped the page out and slid it into his back pocket before replacing the sketchpad in the bag. It was a childish desire for a memento, but he had very little else. Holding what he could have of Specs, he nestled into his seat and began to drift off, oblivious to the parking ticket that awaited him in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to give this thing a nice overarching plot, but I'm really enjoying the vignette to vignette structure, so I apologize if the romance is painfully slow. They're just too fun to write together, I want to drag it out as long as possible.


	11. I'm Still Waiting

**May 2006: The McCauly Home**

 

"Look. These look like some kind of... claw marks, like... markings from beyond."

 

"Or, you know, a racoon, most likely."

 

Specs and Tucker squatted in the unfinished attic of the McCauly home, where a young couple and their daughter reported strange sounds coming from their attic. Though the couple was unsure of their daughter's belief that it was a ghost, Mrs. McCauly had been the beneficiary of a reading by Elise some years prior, and decided to give her a call to be sure. Specs and Tucker had begun running preliminary tests for their clients to avoid having Elise waste her time and talents on false alarms. Since returning to the field she had busied herself with a rather full schedule of readings, so Specs promised, abundantly, that he and Tucker would do the time consuming legwork of on-site inspections. This meant a lot of early morning appointments, which Tucker resented him for.

 

Specs clicked on his LED glasses and started to draw what he saw: long, thin scratch marks on the pitched rafters. Tucker watched him for a moment, a dull look of part boredom, part amusement on his face, until he was satisfied Specs had put forth enough unnecessary effort. He lifted his camera, hanging around his neck by a black and white checked strap, and snapped a picture of the claw marks.

 

"Do you mind?" Specs growled.

 

"You can stop now. I, uh, you know, got a picture. So that's kind of pointless." Tucker pointed to the sketchpad. He made no illusions about the fact that he thought his craft was more important, that was for sure.

 

"Elise will still want to see my take on the issue."

 

"The racoon issue? Because..."

 

"That's for Elise to decide."

 

Tucker grinned and settled back onto one of the McCauley's tupper-totes, more than happy to nap while Specs wasted time on a job. This seemed like a cut and dry bump in the night to him, but Specs was eager to apply the full sweep of their surveilling protocol. Following the guidelines of his oft-revised protocol checklist, they had worked their way up, methodically, from the ground floor to the attic. Tucker suggested they start in the attic, considering that was where the "activity" was supposedly originating from, but that wasn't what Specs' binder said, so it was obviously impossible. Tucker didn't have anything better to do, or to nap on top of, that day anyway.

 

He pulled out a Slim Jim and began munching, observing Specs with a lazy half-interest. He had learned that the more consternated Specs looked, the more he was enjoying his work, which was like a meditative practice for him. A relaxed Specs was an easier Specs to live with, so Tucker often had to choose between annoying him for fun or leaving him alone so they could both have some peace. Lately he had been favoring the latter. Sarcasm flowed from him like honey, but he dialed it back after the last time he got Specs drunk, hoping to put some distance between them to make the whole thing easier to bear. Distant, detached, indifferent- old friends that could help him through hard times. He didn't realize that Specs noticed the change, and had become extremely self-conscious. Specs had a habit of escalating his insecurities to the worst possible scenario, so in this case he had begun to wonder if Tucker was bored of him, their work, and their friendship, because why would he not be? The barbs that once annoyed him now became reassuring reminders that they were ok.

 

"Do you mind not chewing so loudly?" Specs said, his brow furrowing. Tucker held up his hands to show he had long finished his Slim Jim. Specs swept his headlights across the attic, looking, no doubt, for a hungry ghost eating ghost Munchos. His gaze settled on a corner where rolls of extra fiberglass insulation blocked their view of the wall. Specs and Tucker looked at each other, each spooked for entirely different reasons. Specs because of the hungry ghost, Tucker because of rabies.

 

"Go." Specs nudged him.

 

"Why me?"

 

"Because, if it is a racoon you'll know what to do with it."

 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Tucker asked.

 

"I don't know. You're from Oklahoma. Don't you people, like, coon hunt or something?" Specs said. Tucker squinted at him. He wanted to be offended, but he had killed a raccoon with a BB gun when he was fifteen. After a summer long feud trying to scare the same racoon away from the garbage can, he eventually got overzealous pumping his rifle and applied a little bit more than excessive force. Not his finest hour.

 

"Fine." He grunted. He pulled a telescoping tripod from his duffel bag and approached the pile of insulation slowly. The chewing sound stopped, and for a moment Tucker relaxed, thinking perhaps it had been nothing. Then, with a jump Specs was surprised a man of his size could manage, he lurched away from the pile, hitting his head on a rafter in the process. "Fuck!"

 

"Is it a ghost?"

 

"No, dipshit. It's a possum, and it's got like, a million babies." He reared the tripod as if ready to guard himself from an organized opossum assault. Specs ran up and grabbed the end of the tripod, staying the hand of the executioner.

 

"Don't hurt them! They're babies." He leaned over the insulation to look at them. "Beady eyed, demonic looking babies."

 

**June 2006: Mr. Bayfield**

 

"Come in, come in. Well it's been ages since I talked to any of you boys."

 

"Oh, we're not mormons. Elise sent us. She would have mentioned on the phone."

 

Specs and Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder on the porch of an elderly man by the name of Lester Bayfield. Elise hadn't been specific about what Mr. Bayfield's concerns were, but she insisted the boys should go over that afternoon to monitor his house through dinner time. He was a hunched old man, with tufted hair that looked as if he rarely made it out to the barber and smile lines as if he had never frowned a day in his life. He looked over Specs and Tucker with an unchanged expression of excitement. Mormons or not, it was clear he was eager to talk to them.

 

They stepped inside to find a quaint little bachelor pad: the kind Specs had imagined himself destined to grow old in, albeit with fewer doilies. Everything appeared to have been untouched, and undusted, since the eighties. In the living area to the right of the foyer there was a sofa, which appeared to double as Mr. Bayfield's bed, surrounded by stacks of crossword puzzles and pictures of family. A small portable radio and denture cup rested on his night stand. He smiled at Specs and Tucker, as if trying to remember why he invited them in.

 

"Yes, ah, take a seat. I made tea. Do you like tea?" He asked. Specs nodded his head and elbowed Tucker to join him. They shifted onto the sofa while Lester shuffled into the adjacent kitchen. Tucker picked up a picture of what appeared to be a young Mr. Bayfield and his wife.

 

"Put that down." Specs said under his breath.

 

"I don't think you have to whisper." Tucker said, tapping his ears as if to suggest deafness. He held the picture frame just a bit longer to annoy Specs, then set it back down. "This guy used to be a babe."

 

Specs was about to smack him when Mr. Bayfield came back into the room with a teapot and cups. Specs hopped up to help him, taking the cups and setting them out on the coffee table, to which My. Bayfield responded with a few "lad" and "sonny" laden thank yous. He began probing their client about what he had called them for, but it quickly became apparent that Lester had very little idea of it himself.

 

“My wife. You see my wife there.” He pointed to the picture Tucker had been holding. “She’s with me still, you know, I believe that. It’s been...ah, eleven years. Go ahead, take a look. That’s not her real hair you know. She came home from the mall one day with that silly wig on, told me she had gotten it cut that way. I pretended I believed her. She wore it to bed. The thing must have itched like the dickens, but she wouldn’t take it off. Stuck with it for a week, she did, until I finally had mercy on her and told her I knew the whole time.” He laughed, though it dissolved into a wheezing cough pretty quickly. Specs poured him another cup of tea. After a few more attempts to round the conversation back to the task at hand, Specs started to realize exactly why Elise sent them there. Lester didn’t appear to have children nearby and was taking care of himself alone. Whether he was seeing his wife’s ghost or not, he was obvious he was craving company.

 

“So, um, at this point it would be helpful for me if you can just tell me anything you can remember about your wife. Tucker will monitor the house for you, see if anything comes up abnormal, but you and I can just chat.” Specs said with a smile. Tucker took the hint and busied himself creating the illusion that he was scanning the home. It didn’t seem necessary to do the actual sweep. Mr. Bayfield’s portable radio was probably the most advanced technology he had access to, so Tucker’s various scanners and dials would be well beyond him.

 

He kept an eye on Specs from the kitchen, listening to the conversation in snippets. Specs listened patiently, even when Lester repeated himself or lost his train of thought. He asked questions about Lester’s wife, their first home, and his military service. None of it was his job or his business to care about. For a year Tucker had been battling, and losing to, a crush that developed into an infatuation the grew into… smitteness, but he wasn’t ready for the final form. Watching Specs flip through photo albums with a lonely stranger, however, the feeling crept up on Tucker before he could defend himself. It was exactly that sort of do-gooding boy scout shit that made him fall in love with Specs. He was just too decent, for all his other flaws, and as consciously as Tucker was trying to put more distance between them, he couldn't suppress a pang of affection when Specs looked up at him and smiled as if to apologize for how bored Tucker might be.

 

They ended up staying with Mr. Bayfield for dinner. He wanted to cook, but Specs insisted they would order something for him. Lester appreciated what was the first good slice of pizza he had eaten in a long time. When he began dozing off with his napkin still tucked into his collar, Tucker and Specs roused him and said their goodbyes, but not before Specs made a lunch date with him for the following week. They agreed that Elise would try to do a reading for him to reach out to the late Mrs. Bayfield, but the real purpose of their visit had already been fulfilled- much to Elise's delight, Specs began visiting Lester to listen to the same old stories every week.

 

**July 2006: The Apartment of Alex Olivas**

 

For once, Specs thought, they might actually have a genuine haunting on their hands. The facts of the case were these: Alex Olivas, a UCLA graduate student living in a one bedroom apartment, had begun finding things out of place in his home. He initially attributed it to forgetfulness brought on by the stress of a heavy semester, but things started to get even more strange when he began finding mysterious notes around the apartment. The first was a shopping list, and while it contained items Alex had been meaning to buy, it was written in handwriting he didn't recognize, and he never recalled writing it himself.

 

The following note was more ominous. The handwriting was choppy and difficult to read, but it appeared to say "check the doors," and was stuck to his bedpost. There were no obvious signs of a break in, so he set up a webcam in his room, rigged to record after detecting movement. The following morning he woke to find two more blank notes in his room, and no files recorded from his webcam. Before settling on paranormal activity he exhausted every other explanation. A call to the police offered no evidence of home invasion. Various sleep studies proved it was not the product of sleepwalking. He did no drugs and drank no alcohol. Alex admitted he didn't consider himself a believer in the paranormal, but, short of losing his mind, he had no other explanations. He moved out of his apartment temporarily and called Elise for help.

 

Even Specs and Tucker, by no means psychically sensitive, felt a strange shift in atmosphere when they stepped into the apartment. Both fell serious as they swept each room, a pervasive sense of unease rendering them uncommonly quiet. It didn't help that all of Tucker's atmospheric monitors -heat, radiation, and electromagnetic- were measuring abnormally high. "That's a pretty good sign, yeah? I mean bad, but like, we probably have something on our hands here, right?" Specs said, coming to look over Tucker's shoulder at one point.

 

"Maybe. Something really fucky going on, that’s for sure.” He held up a finger to preemptively silence Specs. Tucker enjoyed a good mystery as much as him, but his approach relied on numbers and hard evidence over inference. Tucker didn’t doubt what Specs claimed he felt, what his intuitions compelled him to believe, but he was never ready to call Elise until he had a firm fact to anchor his assessment on. Most of the time he assumed their cases would be false leads, but when he thought he had something he would work tirelessly to follow it through.

 

Specs decided to let Tucker do his thing. He didn’t want to discourage the rare moments of productivity out of him. It was unfair of him, really, to assume Tucker was lazy. He was the kind of selectively motivated that only genuinely talented people could afford to be. He knew his was smart, so he could skim by on minimum effort and still be better than average at a lot of things. He had an uncanny knack for engineering, so he could spend most of his day sleeping and still wake up and grind out some new, impossibly clever invention before his next nap. Specs needed to apply himself at all times, working diligently and meticulously, to achieve the things he wanted. Tucker could do what he wanted in the span of an afternoon.

 

Specs felt a bit uncomfortable sitting in the apartment. There remained an unchanged sense of everything being distinctly off somehow. It didn’t help that he was nursing a pounding headache that only seemed to be getting worse. He popped an aspirin from his trusty pocket first aid kit before settling in to wait for Tucker. He had to be coming down with something, because it was all he could do to settle his stomach and keep the aspirin down. The pain was so distracting that it felt like hours before Tucker came back out of the kitchen.

 

“Go outside right now.” Tucker ordered, marching into the living room like a man on a mission. Specs groaned and sat forward.

 

“Did you find something?” He tried to stand up, eager to get the investigation underway despite his current state, but he almost immediately stumbled backward. Tucker grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him up more forcefully than Specs anticipated, and gave him a stern look in the eye.

 

“Did you take something?”

 

“What? Yeah, an aspirin, I have a headache.”

 

“Oh you fucking- god dammit, come on.” He growled. Specs was too light headed to question Tucker’s urgency when he threw an arm around his shoulders and starting leading him out the front door. When they had made it outside, Tucker sat Specs down on a step and rapidly checked his heartbeat, eyes, and breathing. Apparently he knew more about first aid than he had previously let on, going through the motions of checking Specs’ vitals like an old pro. “Deep breaths. God you’re an idiot.”

 

“What did I do? I’m sick.” Specs frowned, insulted and confused.

 

“I said breath, don’t talk.” Tucker looked away from him only for a minute to pull one of his meters out of his pocket. Normally his more specialized equipment looked like Russian to Specs, but when Tucker held the screen in front of him he had enough information to put the pieces together, between the fact that the handheld detector blatantly said ‘Carbon Monoxide’ on it and the number displayed was in the triple digits. “And you took a fucking blood thinner, so good job genius, now I get to take you to the hospital.”

 

**July 2006: Elise**

 

It was late before the boys made it out of the emergency room. After calling Elise to update her on the situation, she made up the guest rooms and insisted they come stay with her that night. Specs rested in the hospital for a few hours on oxygen before they finally left for their decidedly non toxic destination. Tucker spent the ride home reminding Specs exactly how stupid he thought he was. He had years of experience with minor emergencies that left him unflappable in the moment of crisis, but after the situation had been handled, after there were no more problems to solve, he usually crashed in the unfamiliar feeling of anxiety. Scolding Specs was the only way he knew to disguise his nervous fussing as his usual grade of bossiness.

 

"I called Mr. Olivas and let him know what you found." Elise said when they were all settled around her dining table to recap the day. She had set out their favorite drinks, warm milk for Tucker and dark, black coffee for Specs, and was steeping a cup of green tea for herself. Specs resisted any attempt by her or Tucker to fuss over him otherwise. "Good catch, attributing his symptoms to carbon monoxide, Tucker."

 

Tucker offered a casual salute, looking less cool than he might if he weren't sporting a milk mustache. Specs was feeling more than typically appreciative of his friendship at the moment. Tucker had been estranged for what seemed like the whole summer, falling into a pattern of work, sleep, and inventing that left Specs wondering if something about them had gone wrong. While it came with the usual nagging superiority, it hadn't escaped his notice that Tucker was thoroughly worried about him that night. Whatever had gotten into him wasn't affecting the fundamental strength of their relationship, at least. It was only in the moment of that relief that he acknowledged exactly how dependent he was on what they had. It hadn't been that long ago, but he had almost forgotten what his old familiar loneliness felt like.

 

Specs groaned and rubbed his neck. He was mentally wide awake, as always, but the stress of the day left his body fighting against his mind. Tucker, busy swirling his milk in the glass, looked sideways at Specs the minute he rolled his shoulders back and arched his neck in a deep stretch. He had developed a sixth sense for when Specs was about to do something sexy. Tucker's gaze lingered on his jawline until Specs finally opened his eyes again, averting his notice, but Elise observed the whole exchange discretely.

 

"The bed's ready upstairs for you when you need it, Steven. I set a few books you might like on the night stand." She said as she patted his arm.  She had a masterful way of handling them both- a suggestion there, a favor here, even the occasional scolding, to nudge them toward what was best for them. She was careful to avoid favoritism, too, as it was clear the boys engaged in more than a little competition, both being the bearers of some rather large and fragile egos. Tucker got her quiet afternoons, where they could work on their respective projects in quiet proximity, letting him come to her with his thoughts at his own pace. For Specs she made herself available for the sporadic visit wherein he could ramble, sketch, and diagram his way through whatever philosophical crisis he was currently tackling. She coaxed more openness from Tucker while encouraging peaceful meditation for Specs. It was manipulation of the best possible kind. In this case she killed two birds with one stone, sending Specs upstairs for some quiet reading -she couldn't hope he would actually fall asleep right away- and keeping Tucker with her for a much overdue chat.

 

"Help me with these dishes?" She asked him when Specs had gone up to bed. He rolled up his sleeves and joined her at the sink, ever happy to help. “Thank you for looking out for him today.”

 

“Not gonna let him die.”

 

“Well I should hope not." She said with a laugh. “ But you are a good friend. If you don’t mind my asking, is it possible you’re looking for a little bit more than that?”

 

Tucker stopped mid dish rinse. He’d been carrying the thought around in his head for so long, it sounded strange to hear it spoken out loud. Elise wouldn’t normally pry, especially considering she could tell he was working so hard to conceal it, but it was exactly that careful bottling up that made her think he might need someone to talk to. Tucker measured his response for a minute. He trusted Elise implicitly, that wasn’t an issue, but saying it would make it irretrievably true, like speaking the abstract into reality. Yet, with an opening in sight, he suddenly realized how desperate he was to get it off his chest.

 

“It doesn’t matter.” His answer was succinctly Tucker-esque. Equal parts dismissive and evasive, while still, ultimately, conveying the truth.

 

“I see the way you look at him. It matters to you that much.”

 

“Just not an option.” Tucker now went about rinsing dishes with excessive vigor. If Specs could have seen him, he would have wondered why Tucker didn’t clean like that when he asked him to. “Not that he’s not, well… you know. We’re both confirmed bachelors and all.”

 

“So I gather.” Elise said. Alright then, so her gaydar was on par with her other intuitive senses. Tucker guessed he shouldn’t have expected anything less from a psychic medium.

 

“His parents kind of suck.”

 

“I think I understand.” Elise had developed a picture of Specs’ parents over the past few months. Specs, ever particular with his words, was careful not to cast aspersions on the hands that fed, housed, and clothed him, but Elise sensed his discomfort whenever he mentioned them. They had many long talks where Specs told stories about his childhood in which his parents loomed as an antagonistic force. It said a lot that Specs never wanted to introduce them to Elise, regardless. “Sometimes the people we think are supposed to love us are the ones who let us down the most. That’s why it’s so important to show you care about those who do love you unconditionally.”

 

Tucker thought that sort of philosophical answer might be better appreciated by Specs, but Elise knew he was smart enough to get the meaning. Specs needed a good friend because his parents couldn’t give him what he needed. The love that they could show him was more important. Or something like that. He didn't really deal in abstractions. Elise was wise enough to avoid giving him direct advice, however, given the natural indignation he seemed to hold for direct orders.

 

"I don't worry about you two, though." She continued. "That stubbornness that keeps you two at each other's throats is the very same stubbornness that makes you so determined to stay together."

 

"Yeah." He said gruffly, trying to hide a smile.

 

"Oh you're not fooling anyone with that devil take the hindmost attitude of yours." Elise said when she noticed the corners of his mouth twitch up. She bumped shoulders with him playfully. "I know you're a teddy bear."

  
"Hey I'm fooling plenty of people. Just not you."


	12. Heat Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs and Tucker take refuge from the heat at Elise's house. Another micro chapter, very talk heavy and Elise heavy.

**September 2006**

 

"Alright, now from tadasana slowly fold forward to uttanasana. Careful. You can bend your knees, sweety."

 

Specs took deep, long breath. Doing yoga with Elise was her idea to help him relax, but knowing he wasn't doing it perfectly made him more anxious than he had been before. It didn't help that, after he and Elise had rolled out their yoga mats in her living room, Tucker decided to sit on the sofa in front of them and eat a bowl of ice cream. He was sitting cross-legged, so technically, and _only_ technically, he was doing yoga too. It was a heavy day of early September heat, and the window units in Specs' apartment had gone on the fritz, so they had made their way to Elise's house for refuge. Her house always held a dim, cool restfulness despite the eclectic blend of decorations from the various adventures of her younger life. Somehow it wasn't helping Specs calm down.

 

When Elise recommended yoga a few weeks prior, Specs missed the earthy, relaxing part of the process and immediately applied his clinical approach, researching and memorizing the positions. It was important to him that he achieve a level of expertise before he even started. Unfortunately, that standard was proving counterintuitive to the purpose of the whole exercise.

 

"And inhale up to ardha uttanasana." Elise continued gently. She sensed Specs' anxiety and committed to leading by example,.

 

"So, is anything a yoga position if you add 'asana' to it?" Tucker said with his mouth full. Specs lifted his head and glared. "Because if so, I can do some yoga. I'll eat a burrito-asana, take a nap-asana..."

 

"Ignore him, Steven." Elise reached up and corrected Specs' posture, returning his gaze back to the mat. "Remember, this is about finding a place of peace, so you can tap into it when you need it most. And that," she indicated to Tucker. "Is exactly when you need it most."

 

Tucker responded to her wagging finger with a sly smile. Helping Specs by providing something stressful to tune out was the perfect justification for him to sit there and taunt him. The view didn't hurt either. Though clearly not suited for athletic wear, Specs showed off more skin than usual when he wore it, and Tucker was a simple man when it came to fantasizing. He was getting used to the constant torture of wanting what he couldn't have. It wasn't resolution, but he had found the right ways of compartmentalizing his feelings to keep them from affecting his day-to-day life. It was the Ockley mantle of stiff upper-lippedness working at full capacity.

 

"Left foot green." Tucker said dryly as Specs stretched back into a lunge.

 

"You know, you could stand to do some exercise yourself." He shot back.

 

"I exercise. I carry all that shit in and out of the van all the time."

 

"That doesn't count."

 

"If it doesn't count then maybe you could help sometime."

 

"Shhhh. Steven. To plank." Elise said serenely.

 

"And... right foot green." Tucker said. He planted his spoon in the bowl as if to signal the completion of his own exhausting task. Specs lost whatever centering he might have had. His biceps quaked and ultimately failed under his own weight. “Ooh. Elise wins.”

 

Specs rolled up onto his knees, a blaze of anger in his eyes, ready to tell Tucker off, but Elise broke from her pose and held him back. “Easy. Remember what the doctor said.”

 

A few weeks ago Tucker brought Specs to a doctor’s appointment where he learned he had “abnormally high blood pressure for his age.” The doctor instructed him to start finding ways to relieve stress, but he couldn’t have realized how difficult an order that was to follow. Everything about Specs ran on high tension, from the negative, worried side to his more excitable boyish side. He was straight-edged to a fault, but even he had his vices in caffeine, adrenaline, and anxiety, all highs that left him with a constant buzz. The upside was that he was incredibly prolific in everything he did. Specs crammed more activity into one day than most people could get in a week. Of course, this came at the cost of sleep and healthy relationships with anyone other than the two misfits with whom he spent the majority of his time, and now, apparently, his good health.

 

Elise and Tucker showed their concern for him in different ways. Elise offered iced teas, morning walks, and her usual brand of patient listening. Tucker only knew one way of showing concern for people: trying to solve their problems himself, often with brute force, and seldom with permission. Despite every meager attempt to appear emotionally detached, he had a habit of feeling responsible for other people’s well-being that stemmed back to the days when his own father relied on him to keep things going. It was the reason he had sold a few of his inventions to collect royalties so he could front the money for most of Specs’ business ventures. It was the reason he made dinner every night, however crappy it was, so Specs had one less thing to worry about. If asked, he would say he was just doing it all to keep Specs out of his hair, but it was secretly gratifying to provide and protect in whatever ways he could. Unfortunately, it often manifested in ways that seemed pushy, because he acted from a place of feeling that he knew what was best. Once he had an idea of how things should be managed, there was no room to offer him suggestions.

 

This became apparent in the first few days after Specs’ doctor's appointment. Specs started to notice that the alarm on his watch, which he often used to schedule reminders for his various daily tasks, was going off without reason or warning far more often than it used to. This only made his blood pressure get worse, as it would go off during investigations or while he was writing, and he couldn’t figure out to make it stop. On one particularly muggy day it went off for the entire car ride to the location of their next investigation. He ripped the watch off when they got out of the van, only for it to stop beeping immediately. That was when he realized something was wrong.

 

“What is this?” He asked Tucker when he joined him at the back of the van. He held up the watch accusingly.

 

“Um. That’s a watch, Kowalski.”

 

“No. This.” He pointed to a small metal sensor inlaid in the mesh band.

 

“Oh. That’s the, uh, heart rate monitor I installed in your watch.”

 

“Is that why it’s been beeping so much?” Specs tossed him the watch. “You really thought that would help? Keep it.” The beeping suddenly started up again. Specs was practically twitching from the last few days of noise. “Why is it still going?” He yelled.

 

“That’s probably the body heat monitor I installed in your belt buckle.”

 

“What? Why would you...that’s such a weird place to put that.”

 

"It's just his way of showing he's worried." Elise later assured him. A small part of Tucker was offended that Specs never seemed to notice or appreciate his style of helpfulness, especially since Specs was just as guilty of it himself, albeit in different ways. Specs often did Tucker’s laundry and prematurely cleaned his messes, all in the name of what was “best for him.” Despite that, it was difficult to convince Specs that Tucker was after his best interests, especially where his encouragement of their yoga was concerned. Elise decided to apply a different sort of medicine to the situation.

 

"Well, that's probably enough of that for today. Since you're here, would you boys help me with something?" They were the magic words. While still prone to one-upmanship after hearing them, asking for help was the best way to get the boys to fall into line behind her, and thus the fastest way to ease them off the cusp of an argument. Specs and Tucker stood at attention. "I want to move a few things around in my reading room. I could use a little muscle."

 

They had yet to be invited to the reading room. It was not only reserved for readings, but readings of the most particular circumstances. Elise wanted to bring them into the process, but gradually, and with great care to place equal importance on their respective roles. Specs and Tucker couldn't help but smile at each other in anticipation. For as warm and open as she had been, there was still a magnificent air of mystery around her, and around the various dark corners of her eclectic home. They followed her to the door under the stairs, where she produced a key from a necklace hanging at her chest.

 

"I've been witness to many strange things in my life, and many of these happened in this room." She said as she clicked open the lock on the antiquated cut-glass knob. The door opened into a small entryway filled with the usual Elise oddities: tapestries, obscure books, pictures of saints from various world religions, and a vase of withered marigolds. Specs sniffed at the dust. He respected Elise, but he would love to get his hands on her house one day to organize. He was admittedly an outlier on the scale of tidiness.

 

They descended the stair case past a large plaster zodiac wheel, which Tucker paused at to tap on the Virgo symbol. “That’s why you have high blood pressure, right there buddy.” Specs sneered in response. Elise held open the curtain of beads at the bottom of the stairs, shepherding them into the dim, crowded little basement room. Specs was immediately reminded of some vague childhood nightmare. Tucker was reminded of stores where he wasn’t allowed to touch things as a child. He poked a little paper carousel on the table next to him, making it spin.

 

“I used to spend a lot more time down here.” Elise said as she went from lamp to lamp to brighten up the space. “I must admit I’m still easing my way back into using this room.”

 

“Well, whatever we can do to make it make it more,” Specs paused and wiped the dust off a nearby book. “comfortable for you…”

 

Elise set the boys to work, moving more fragile items to the center reading table, then rearranging the large, solid furniture she seemed to favor. She had a story to tell about everything -a pair of calaveras were given to her by a Jesuit priest in Mexico, a framed scroll of Egyptian funerary texts had been part of her husband Jack’s collection, a granite-topped chess table was the reward for a particularly taxing reading with a famous someone who wished to remain anonymous- every item was as fascinating as it was heavy. If Tucker hadn’t been working out before, he was now. At one point, Elise declined Specs’ generous offer to run out and buy furniture polish. They worked their way to the middle of the room, where, when all done, the three naturally congregated around the reading table.

 

After their short adventure into nostalgia, it became apparent why Elise was hesitant to be in her reading room anymore. Every item had a connection to Jack. Specs and Tucker could hear the bittersweet memory in her voice when she talked about him. If the house they had filled together was any indication, they had lived a very full and adventurous life together, which somehow made his death all the more bewildering. Objectively, they both knew anyone could be prone to depression, but from the outside Jack must have seemed a very happy man indeed, a fact which threw into sharp relief the perception and reality of what he suffered. Elise had mentioned his death, but now, surrounded by memories, she spoke about him with even greater candor.

 

"Jack was always extreme, and I do mean that literally. It was always highs and lows. As you can see," She gestured to the room around them, "the highs were never dull. It was the same way when we were dating. He was always making big gestures, trying to get my attention. I didn't want anything to do with him at first though, because he didn't believe I was psychic. I finally agreed to go out with him, but on one condition: he had to let me do a reading for him. I didn't expect that the reading would do just as much to convince me as it did him. I sat him down, expecting for him to be dismissive, expecting to find the same arrogant person I thought he was. But he was open to the experience, and I... helped him connect with a loved one that had passed away. It showed me the other side of him. The side that was very sensitive. Of course, that was the side that became more fragile over time..."

 

Specs and Tucker listened with the quiet understanding that they were being given very personal information. Their relationship with Elise had begun with great mutual affection and grown over the summer into something family-like, but they could tell that this was establishing a very adult facet of who she wanted to be for them. In the humid basement, the heat and stress of the day felt surreally distant.

 

"One thing we definitely had in common was our fascination with the dead. It manifested in different ways, of course, but we both ran the risk of focusing too much on what was beyond. Having each other gave us something to enjoy in the here and now. It was always a balancing act to keep appreciating what we had, though, and he would always swing so far one way or another- he eventually swung too far and couldn't come back. Without him... I lost my anchor to this world."

 

Tucker thought for a moment that he might offer some sort of solidarity. He did have reason to empathize with her loss, after all. Given the choice between sharing and not, however, he was inclined to keep it to himself, even if it was a bit selfish to do so. There would be a time and a place to talk about his feelings- at least that's what he'd been telling himself for the past nine years. Meanwhile, Specs struggled to empathize at all. Did he have anyone he cared about as much as that? The answer seemed obvious the minute the question entered his mind. He did. They were sitting right next to him. He instinctively reached out and took Elise's hand, breaking her attention from the distance she had been staring into. She smiled.

 

"And now I have you. I have you both." She extended her other hand to Tucker. The boys were both aware of how much they needed her, but this was the first time they realized she needed them too. "Which is part of the reason I wanted to tell you this today. Because there's something you need to know."

 

“I told you, when we first met, that I was afraid to use my gift again, because when you reach out… there are other things that try to follow you back. Now, we as the living have strength over them. That is, we can return to the living world, where they can not. But there are weak points to this apparent divide: people who explore outward, whether due to curiosity both innocent and morbid, or people who invite thoughts of death to them- people like me. In order to help others, I have to compromise my ability to separate life from death, and this puts me at risk. So if something happens to me-”

 

“Don’t say that.” Specs said, the very idea of it so repulsive that his instincts overwhelmed his otherwise good manners.

 

“You know the risks. I’ve seen you stand face to face with them.” She said, a bit more sternly, before going on. “If something happens, I want you to know that there is a spirit who wants to kill me. I denied it a chance to come into this world, and it wants revenge. After Jack died, my grief made it easy to find me, and now she won’t leave me alone, but I have found ways of keeping her at bay, for now. I just want you to understand. I owe you that.”

 

“Well I don’t want anything to happen to you.” Specs said.

 

“Yeah. This thing, whatever it is, it’s gonna have to get through us first.” Tucker added. They were both fully aware that these were empty promises, made to comfort themselves as much as Elise, if not more so. On the surface, they sounded like a childish dismissal of Elise’s warning, but there was a silent understanding that the message was fully received and respected. Specs let out a shaky sigh.

 

"If this was your idea to get me to relax…”

 

Elise chuckled. “No, though I guess it doesn't help much, does it?"

 

"It doesn't take much either." Tucker said with a playful pat on Specs' shoulder. He was happy to turn the conversation away from the grave. When it came to loss, he ascribed to the plugging your ears school of thought: purpose, ignore unpleasant realities; methodology, evade with humor. "We should probably get him upstairs before he goes full Felix Unger on us."

 

Specs frowned. "That's not even comparable, in what way-"

 

"Neurotic? Check."

 

"No."

 

"Pouty? Ch-"

 

"When do I pout?"

 

"Um, perpetually?"

 

"Boys... boys." Elise cut in. At least the last hour had been one of relative peace and quiet. "Why don't we watch a movie?"

 

Specs and Tucker had been delighted to find that Elise had similar taste in movies as them. She loved of the offbeat, the colorful, and the macabre, all of which intersected in retro grindhouse films. Though she threw in the occasional sweeping romance or classic Hollywood film, she could keep up with the most twisted of their film choices. The sun had finally gone down and the night was cooling, so they settled in to Elise’s upstairs TV room with another classic gourmet Tucker meal of cereal.

 

Specs curled up on the floor in front of the sofa, as Tucker had a tendency to spread himself across more than his share of seating. He didn’t shy away from a shoulder rub from Tucker once the movie started. Specs’ mind was impervious to even the most overt romantic gestures, making him an unintentional tease, though Tucker was just as guilty for taking advantage of it. Regardless of intentions, however, it did help him relax. Watching a movie and fighting over who got to hold the bowl of popcorn proved to be the most effective medicine in calming him down. Tucker knew, because he had updated the monitor in Specs’ watch to send updates to his phone instead of beeping. He knew what was best for him, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm at a crossroads, where I can expedite things or drag them out, depending on a few choices I make. I don't want it to end though.


	13. Stand by Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A call from a hotel maid leads the gang to Nevada. Specs struggles to justify his work, and Tucker his feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late upload. After this I'll be returning to releasing a chapter every Monday, as was my original plan. I had some serious writer's block this past week, but after a few days of struggle I discovered the key to overcoming it: alcohol. So, without further adieu, I present this chapter, brought to you in part by Tequila.

“Okay. I have newspaper clippings from 64 to 66, town records for the motel, leases, legal documentation...uh, some negatives from the grand reopening…”

 

Specs, Tucker, and Elise sat around the dingy coffee table of a Nevada motel suite, stacks of paper and pictures spread in front of them in a way only Specs could understand. Their first road trip together had been prompted by a phone call from a cleaning staff member of the Tranquil Meadow Inn, who claimed, in panicked broken English, that the hotel was haunted by the spirit of a former manager who had committed suicide there. They piled their most essential equipment into the van and began the trek northeast, with Specs and Elise enjoying road games and sing alongs while Tucker followed, in peace, on his motorcycle.

 

Though Elise insisted it wasn’t necessary, Specs had compiled an exhaustive amount of research about the death of Oliver North, beleaguered father, debtor, and hotel manager. The Norths were so hard up for money that the family, including Oliver’s wife and two children, lived in one of the standard double rooms of the isolated little inn. Elise sensed a paranormal force the moment she set foot on the premises, but struggled to draw out the weary and frustrated spirit to talk to her. Meanwhile, Tucker had performed his ritual sweep, delighted to find an unopened pack of Chuckles that had probably been under the bed in one room since the Sixties. Specs occupied himself interviewing the cleaning staff with great difficulty due to the language barrier, much to their frustration.

 

Specs was eager to turn the North haunting into a featured article on Spectral Sightings despite the setbacks. If his research could help Elise locate some means of contacting the spirit, all the better. So after the sun went down, they gathered in what the brochure advertised as the “living area” of their room to comb through the case files. Specs prodded Tucker, who slouched against him on the stained loveseat they shared, trying to recall his attention away from a spiderweb in the corner.

 

“Tucker. Yoohoo. Can you check these for abnormal heat signatures?” Specs waved the negatives in front of him.

 

Tucker clipped the film between his fingers. “Sure.”

 

“And Elise and I will split the work here, see if we can find some clues...:”

 

Elise and Tucker made eye contact. He rolled his eyes, and she shook her head, offering a sympathetic smile.

 

“Good plan Scooby.” Tucker threw over his shoulder.

 

“Scooby is the dog, so that doesn’t even make sense.”

 

“Sure it does.”

 

“No, and-” Specs looked over at Tucker and saw that he put down the negatives in favor of his fossilized Chuckles. “Would it kill you to do one thing?”

 

“It sounds like you could use a Chuckle.” Tucker held the package out to him, only to be swatted away. Something had Specs on edge. Though he disguised it as extreme interest in the case, Elise spent the whole car ride feeling like Specs had something he wanted to say. Not normally one to hold back his thoughts, especially to Elise, who he had a habit of dropping in on to discuss his most minor of crises, Specs was uncharacteristically detached for the whole trip. Even Tucker noticed, though it didn’t help when he suggested Specs was on his period. “Calm down, tiger, I’ll look for your fricken heat signatures.”

 

“You might not think this is important…”

 

“I think it’s important.”

 

“But it is and I’m just trying to be thorough.”

 

“I said I would do it.”

 

“Boys.” That one word had become a way for Elise to express her disapproval of their fighting. She could be as fierce as she was sweet. It silenced them instantly. Specs looked up over his glasses apologetically. She could see the same thought, heavy behind his eyes, that had played on his face all day. Specs normally loved going on investigations to the point of near giddiness. The opportunity to help people, coupled with the fact that he could recite his fascinating ideas about the afterlife to an even semi-intertest audience, made for Specs’ idea of a perfect evening. Tonight, however, his enthusiasm seemed like an act; an attempt to portray himself as the Specs he knew they expected.

 

Elise played along for about an hour until Tucker fell asleep. Specs grimaced when he felt Tucker’s head nuzzle into his shoulder. He tried to shrug Tucker awake.

 

“Tucker, come on.”

 

“Shh, let him sleep.” Elise’s voice came like a gentle hum from across the table.

 

“He spends 75% of the day sleeping.”

 

“It’s not really fair to expect most people to follow your sleep schedule, night owl.” Elise said with a wink. Specs softened a little. He was terrible at hiding his feelings, and holding it in for an entire day took a lot of conscious effort. Somehow it was easier to open up now that Tucker had fallen asleep.

 

“I just have a lot to do.” His voice faltered a bit. Elise read the double meaning. Having a lot to do kept him up at night, indeed, but it seemed to be weighing on him more than usual.

 

“Normally I get the impression you do those things because you enjoy them.” She gathered up some of the pictures Specs had collected and fanned them out. “You love doing this. So why do I get the feeling you’re not having fun tonight?”

 

Specs sighed. His eyes scanned the room, from their equipment piled in the corner to the snoring giant curled up on him like sleepy puppy, until they settled back on Elise with his thoughts gathered. “I started doing this when I was fourteen. Writing articles, breaking into old houses. I knew there were other people who were afraid, like I had been, and I… I just wanted to help. It’s all I want to do.” He paused for a deep breath. “How do you do it? Make it… work? With money I mean. Because I can’t figure out how to keep doing this without leeching off of everyone around me.”

 

“Just exactly how are you leeching off of anyone?”

 

“How am I not? Tucker pays for everything, and my parents-” Elise sensed they were approaching the real issue. Specs spent every Tuesday night defending his career to his parents, who had the unfortunate trump card of being his sole livelihood. Six years in school with no degree, no taxable wage earning job, and what appeared to them as nothing more than hobby to occupy his time was a recipe that left him looking, in their eyes, like a perfect loser. He was beginning to believe it himself.

 

“Depending on others is nothing to be ashamed of.” Elise started. Specs raised his head, ready to protest, but she held up a finger. “Gifts given with strings attached are often anything but. It's the people who give them, not the ones who receive them, that should feel ashamed."

 

"But I don't have a choice, do I?" Specs' head swam in the seemingly impermeable web of his parent's influence. No grown man should have to wear what his mother told him to, or date only the people his father preselected, but as long as they were putting a roof over his head, that would be exactly the arrangement. He felt guilty even suggesting they were at fault. Many people had less. People like Tucker. It suddenly occurred to him why he was never comfortable talking about his parents with Tucker. How could he complain about having two well-off, fully alive parents? The fact that they took care of him was the only reason he could ever do Spectral Sightings to begin with. He shook his head. "They're just doing what they think is best for me."

 

"What started all of this, Steven? Recently." Elise stood up and walked over to the sink, still listening while she began to prep a paper cup for some microwave tea.

 

"I don't know." Specs peeled off his glasses and massaged his forehead, now being careful not to disturb Tucker. "My dad keeps offering to let me come work with him. He's the senior engineer at a water well pump factory, so you can imagine what that means I'd be doing. Friday he all but said he wouldn't keep paying for college unless I took it. I don't know. Maybe it's time."

 

The minute the words were out, Specs imagined the reality going to work would mean. He could only do Spectral Sightings on weekends, if at all. He would barely see Tucker and Elise. Writing would become practically impossible to pursue. The fact that he couldn't get over himself and just have a job like a normal person only made him feel like a loser. Just as his parents predicted, he had failed to become a well-adjusted adult. Elise came back over with two cups of tea steaming in hand. She knelt in front of Specs and offered a cup.

 

"If I know one thing, it's that there are many, many people who won't understand why we do the things we do. Let's face it," She said with a twinkling laugh. "We seem crazy, don't we? Chasing shadows. Speaking to the air. In this line of work you're going to get a lot of doors slammed in your face. But you already know that. You take them like a champ. And why? Because for every slammed door there's a family you make feel safe. A child that can sleep better at night. A Mr. Bayfield you can take to lunch every Monday." She reached up and brushed aside the hair that stuck to his sweaty brow, a motherly gesture that called into contrast the formal distance of his own mother. "You may not be the picture of success according to your father's sensibilities, but you're without a doubt one of the most dedicated individuals I've ever met. You've worked hard and made sacrifices to follow your dream. And that's a dream motivated by compassion for others, no less. Now I'm not going to tell you how to live your life. I just want you to know that if you need to take a leap of faith, you know who will be there to catch you."

 

Specs' voice stuck in his throat. Probably just dry from the Nevada air. Being at a loss for words was never an issue for him. In fact, he had more trouble keeping his thoughts inside his head then getting them out. But he couldn't find words to explain how completely unprecedented her promise was. Offers of help had always come with expectations. Tucker and Elise never asked him to be anything though. Well, occasionally they asked him to be quiet, but aside from that. He managed a simple, "Thank you."

 

Elise settled back into her chair. "And as far as this one's concerned-" She nodded to Tucker. "I can tell you he doesn't mind putting food on the table if it means you're the one taking care of the back forty. There's nothing wrong with that arrangement. If it's a matter of pride -which, with the two of you it always is- just remember he relies on you just as much as you do him. He's sensitive. He needs you."

 

"Sensitive is not one of the words I would use to describe him." Specs laughed. Bossy, confrontational, condescending- yes, but sensitive could only be applied to his ego. Then again, seeing as how he was currently snuggled up at his side, Specs could be convinced that there was a mutual dependency. Not that he wanted to consider it. Such things made it harder for him to ignore the ever growing elephant in the room. "I can't imagine what it would be like if I weren't there to clean up after him though."

 

He waited for Elise to join in on the joke,only to see she had turned her gaze up and over his shoulder, with the look in her eye that only ever meant a spooky thing was near. He froze and slowly turned his head, looking in vain to see what Elise could see. By no means psychic, he only experienced as much as their average client, including everything from looming shadows to violent poltergeists. Elise always seemed to have one eye in the Further. He could never imagine what her version of reality looked like, with the dead constantly floating by in her periphery, but she always took care to explain it in detail so he could draw it. This time he had nothing but a vague sense of a presence standing between the double beds. He nervously reached for his sketchpad on the coffee table. Tucker roused at the sudden movement with a rumbling groan, too sleepy to be embarrassed that he had been drooling on Specs for the last fifteen minutes.

 

"Must've dozed." Tucker murmured. Specs shushed him, and Tucker realized that he and Elise were still, frozen like deer listening for a distant noise. He shook off the haze and followed their eyeline over the loveseat.

 

"Why are you still here?" Elise addressed the space on the other side of the room. "What do you need?"

 

Specs' hand whisked over the sketchpad like polygraph needle. When they first started working together he often clammed up; missed words or details of what she described. Now it was as if they had a direct line running between them. He followed her, word after word, with comfortable muscle memory. Between the handwriting and sloppy sketches it probably looked like the diary of a schizophrenic. At talented schizophrenic, of course.

 

"He wants to know your name." Elise said. Specs wrote it, then thought about it.

 

"My name?" He recorded his own words as he said them. The transcription had to be complete. Elise looked at him expectantly. "I... uh, Steven..." He figured a ghost from the Sixties might not appreciate the punny nature of his nickname. Elise's eyes seemed to trace from the end of the room next to Specs. The hair on the back of his neck prickled at the implication.

 

"Why are you here?" Elise shook her head with frustration. "He doesn't hear me. He thinks he's alive, or dreaming. He sees you though."

 

"Why me?"

 

"I don't know. A connection, a feeling. He's been replaying the day before his death, but you're something new. You're confusing him. You're making him wake up because you're not part of the dream. People come and go and he doesn't see them but for some reason he's seen you... and he's asking why you're here."

 

Tucker couldn't help feeling like he'd missed something, and couldn't help but feeling like that was for the best. He leaned as far away from the direction Specs and Elise were looking, all body language pointing to 'nope'. Specs tried to keep up with the convoluted conversation they were trying to have on his notepad: Oliver speaking to him through Elise, him to Oliver, and her to Specs. Talking to the living was struggle enough. What should he say to a dead man?

 

"Tell him I'm here to help him."

 

"You speak to him."

 

Specs hoped he was looking in the right direction. His fear of appearing rude extended even to the deceased. "I want to help you."

 

"'What's happening to me? I can't wake up. I can't.'" Elise interpreted. "You have to help him understand."

 

"What do I say?" Specs had never broken the bad news of death to anyone, let alone to the person who had died, but Elise seemed more than ready to leave him on his own with this one. His voice trembled as he spoke, out of nervousness or sadness or some combination in between. "Mr. North you're not alive anymore-"

 

"'No.'"

 

"You can rest but you need to leave. It doesn't matter what you did." Specs scanned the contents of his research, eagerly remembering what details he could. A gambling addiction. Disappointed children. Expectations. He couldn't hear the spirit, but he began to feel, whether by empathy or some paranormal force, a more direct connection to the grief of the vague something that Elise now watched at his side. "You have to forgive yourself and, and accept that you can move on to a better place-"

 

"He can see that place."

 

"You don't have to punish yourself. You can leave now." Specs glanced around, unsure how to further prompt him without the cues of body language. "Well...go on."

 

As if by the tailwind of a swiftly departing presence, the pages of Specs' sketchpad ruffled and turned over his hand. It wasn't as eloquent as Elise's elegiac shepherding of the dead to the promised land, but Specs sensed that his final command had been heard, a fact confirmed by the smile that had risen on Elise's cheeks. The breath of anxiety that had been building inside of him released. If this was what Elise did every day, he had a whole new respect for her. Helping dead souls cross the finish line was a daunting responsibility.

 

"What the fuck?" Tucker broke the silence in his usual inelegant fashion. Specs felt a welling up of post seance adrenaline that left him gripping Tucker's arm for support. Tucker flexed out of a hormone driven imperative.

 

"He said thank you." Elise said. Specs looked down at his mess of a transcript and laughed nervously. "You did wonderful job, Steven. Something about you drew him out. And now you've helped him move on."

 

When he first started seeing spirits in the shadows of his Voltron night light as a child, Specs’ first instinct was to assume that he, in fact, was somehow psychic. Library books read in secret corners led him to fantasies of a special gift, albeit a frightening one. Years of pursuing contact, however, proved that he was disappointingly normal. That reality never deterred him from his unorthodox after school activities, but he always felt just on the cusp of some more profound experience. Now, with Elise’s help, he had achieved that milestone. Sleep simply would not be had. So when Elise had gone to her own room and Tucker to his bed, Specs spent the remaining hours of moonlight pacing between his sketchpad and the window. Tucker slept through it easily until Specs stubbed his toe and offered a string of curses.

 

“Slow your fuckin roll, Kowalski.” Tucker said, sitting up and clicking on the light. Specs channeled Igor between his stubbed toe and aversion to sudden bright lights. “You’re creeping me out.”

 

“Sorry. I’m just so excited.” He hopped on one foot to the opposite bed and sat across from Tucker. Tucker didn’t really see why anyone had business being awake, let alone smiling about it, after midnight, but Specs looked like a tween girl juiced on birthday cake at her first slumber party. Simultaneously cute and annoying.

 

“Yeah, you had a real special connection with your dead boyfriend.”

 

“Oh come on.” Specs deflated slightly. “He was standing right next to me.”

 

“You forgot to ask for his number.”

 

“That’s not what it was.”

 

“Mmkay.” Tucker plunked back into his pillow. He couldn’t really explain why he felt the need to minimize Specs’ enjoyment of the moment. It could be jealousy, but he didn't really want to see and talk to ghosts just for the sake of it like Specs. It was the challenge of creating ways to make that contact possible he enjoyed. Not that his start in the world of paranormal investigation hadn't been motivated by a desire to contact someone. There it was. A hiccup in the carefully constructed defenses. Where humor couldn't control it, anger would suffice. "I just don't get the point."

 

"What do you mean? That whole thing was exactly the point. We do this to help people."

 

"Who did we help? The maids? The one's who called you joto behind your back?"

 

"I don't know what that means."

 

"It's not nice."

 

Specs' cheeks burned. He didn't have to think too hard about it, but he didn't need Tucker to bring it up either. "We helped Mr. North."

 

"It warms my heart to know a deadbeat parent has found their way to the pearly gates. His kids don't get any peace. Maybe he doesn't deserve it."

 

Specs regretted waking the bear. Tucker could be prone to his own time of the month. They had plenty of conversations about the afterlife in their two year partnership, and Specs always welcomed Tucker's more cynical input, but now he could feel it clashing with his excitement, one of his own greatest achievements. He had done something that made him proud; something that reminded him his work was meaningful, and worth his time, but Tucker had to come up with a counter argument perfectly selected to make him feel like shit about it.

 

"Go to hell, Tucker." He said. He had sharp tongue when he needed it. He snapped the light off again and stripped to his boxers and t-shirt before climbing under the covers. Mustering every implement of negative body language, he rolled on his side away from Tucker and stuck his nose in the air. Some recollection of Elise's words, that Tucker was sensitive, that he needed him, played in the back of his mind, but the offense to his own self-importance was too strong for him to get past. They would have to go to bed angry, for the first time in a long time.


	14. Don't Say Goodnight and Mean Goodbye

**November 2006**

 

“He’s gone.”

 

Specs said it again, but saying it didn’t make it less surreal. He’d said it in shock the morning he and Elise woke up at the Tranquil Meadow Inn, no Tucker or motorcycle to be found. He said it in disbelief when they got back to Los Angeles and he hadn’t been there. And now he said it, final, firm, and utterly hopeless, when his twenty-third call to Tucker’s phone went to voicemail. It had been two days of sleepless pacing at Elise’s house. Reasons and conclusions raced through Specs’ head, the most frequently recurring one being that Tucker was presently lying in the Nevada desert being circled by buzzards, cell phone just beyond his grasp. This thought was countered by another, equally horrible conclusion: Tucker had simply left and didn’t want to talk to him. They had fought the night before, after all- but they fought all the time, so why now? And why make Elise worry too? Specs made liberal use of air in a paper bag trying to answer these questions.

 

Elise remained the rational one. She worried in her own way, sending wishes of well-being, physical or emotional, to wherever Tucker might be. She sensed for a while that he could be prone to impulsive decisions. He had a habit of letting his feelings build up until they expressed themselves in explosive and inappropriate ways, often by snapping at Specs. Whatever provoked this particular outburst was different than his usual problems, however, given the more dramatic reaction.

 

“If he were hurt, would someone know to contact you?” She asked Specs, steering him to the kitchen table where she set out lunch. Specs’ stomach turned. Food just reminded him of Tucker.

 

“I’m listed as his emergency contact in his phone and on his medical records for the last year, and I put my information in his wallet, but he complained when I did it so he might have taken that out by now. Uh... oh, and if he has his purple sweater I kind of wrote his blood type on the tag, so they would have that if he...needed it.”

 

“We have no reason to think that at this point.”

 

Specs made as if to dial his number again, but Elise took his hand to stop him. Specs hadn’t stopped moving since they got home, and he could feel the collective fatigue of the last few days hit him suddenly, as if he were finally permitted to sit still. He slumped down at the table and dug his fingers through his hair. “That doesn’t make it any better. It just means he left… because… fuck us I guess.”

 

He never liked to curse in front of Elise, but the circumstances outweighed his obligation to be a good boy. He sincerely hoped, above all, that Tucker was safe, but the implication which followed was that his best friend thought so little of him that he left without a goodbye. He had no warning, no suspicion that they had somehow fallen apart. Specs wasn’t exactly experienced in the realm of long-term relationships, friend, boyfriend, or otherwise, but he at least thought he knew where they stood, and he thought where they stood had been pretty fantastic despite the occasional spat. He wondered if he had done something wrong. It stood to reason it was his fault. Few other people wanted to be around him. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found a way to scare Tucker away without realizing it. A new layer of nausea bubbled up when Specs remembered the last thing he had said to him.

 

“I just want to know-” He let the statement hang there, free to end in multiple ways. It could almost be ok as long as he had a reason. Better than wondering.

 

Almost as if to answer him, his phone suddenly vibrated in his hand. The shock jolted him. He didn’t recognize the number- not even the area code. Here was the coroner, no doubt calling to let Specs know Tucker had gone straight where he last told him to. Specs hopped up from the table and prepared himself with a single, shuddering breath before picking up the phone.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi, is this Specs?” The voice on the other end didn’t sound like anyone old enough to be a coroner. It was young, female, and spoke his name with confidence- as if she had said it many times. Most people said his name like a question, as if to ask ‘are you serious with this?’

 

“Uhuh. Yes.” He spun around and looked at Elise with a shrug.

 

“This is Bethany. Tucker’s sister.” She made a noise that could only be described as the sound of eye rolling. “He probably hasn’t even told you I exist, has he?”

 

“Is he ok?” Specs interrupted her.

 

“Yeah, aside from being an asshole. He’s home with us. I’m so sorry he didn’t tell you.” Specs’ mind raced to rearrange all the pieces of the puzzle around the new information. “Our dad had a stroke, and he rode out here before I could tell him to get help. He didn’t want me to call you, but I got him to go down for a nap finally. I just wanted to make sure you and Elise knew.”

 

For as little as Tucker mentioned her, she seemed pretty familiar with them. Specs pulled the receiver down from his mouth and put the phone on speaker. “He’s safe.” He said to Elise, who held her hand to her heart. Specs was only marginally more forgiving of Tucker after getting the details: his sister, only seventeen, called him early in the morning to let him know she was bringing their father to the hospital. Tucker had packed up and left in a hurry before she could argue with him. In contrast to her brother, and despite her age, Beth remained calm and mature as she explained the situation to Specs, but he could hear her voice grow more stressed as the conversation went on, until she seemed to be tearing up by the end.

 

“Look, it’s not my place to ask this, and I understand if it’s kind of a big assumption-” She started, her voice quaking. “We could use your help. You know how Tucker is, and I just, the way he talks about you- it feels like you’re part of the family. I know he would pretend to be pissed, but it would mean a lot to him if you came out here.”

 

When they got off the phone, Elise asked the obvious question, and Specs gave the obvious answer.

 

“You’re going, aren’t you?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Specs operated well under pressure, despite his tendency to overthink things. The overthinking had always stemmed from a lack of clear goals, but when a goal was present, especially a goal that involved doing things for other people, his anxiety melted away. The decision to go required no thought at all. It was more a matter of fact than a question. His bag remained unpacked from their trip to Nevada, so it took all of an hour to get the van ready for a day long trek east to Sperry, Oklahoma. With razor focus he plotted his course. Elise made him promise he would stop to sleep halfway there, acknowledging that a night of sleep for Specs clocked in at around three hours.

 

It wasn’t until the planning ended and the execution began that his brain caught up with his body. An hour outside of the city, Spectral Sightings van rolling down the highway, baffling other motorists, he was finally ready to process the past few days. Concern for Tucker took precedence, though the occasional wave of anger at being ignored washed by. Twenty hours of pavement between them gave Specs plenty of time to choose exactly the right words to express that anger.

 

If the first half of the trip was motivated by anger, the second half was motivated by a question. Specs stopped in a suburb of Albuquerque to eat, change, and take a nap that would qualify as “sleeping halfway there,” using the ever trusty overnight kit. When he went to get a new shirt, a tourist brochure fluttered out of his bag. Scrawled on the back in his one of kind, I don’t care to function like a normal adult handwriting, was a simple message from Tucker: “Sorry”. He flipped the brochure over, hoping for more, but brevity being the soul of contempt, Tucker hadn’t felt the need to explain himself further. Specs tossed the note away. So he had at least cared enough to leave a note, but why not just ask for help? Sure, Tucker was proud, but he had to know he and Elise would do anything for him. The question carried him through the night and into his own personal hell of rural Oklahoma.

 

Sperry was more of a glorified trailer park than a proper town. It had its charms. No doubt it would be a lovely place to spend a few peaceful twilight years, but Specs guessed even he could throw a stone from one end of town to the other. The van rambled up to the address by late morning during a light, muggy rain. Tucker’s childhood home was a single story house with a screened front porch and peeling paint. His motorcycle was leaned underneath a shabby aluminum awning, barely protected from the rain. Specs couldn’t help but feel out of place, and somehow shamefully privileged, as he walked up the muddy footpath to the front door.

 

Just as he drew his hand back to knock, the door swung open, and Specs found himself looking at a miniature, female version of Tucker. Beth had the same big brown eyes and unsettlingly firm stare, softened only by her youth and head full of thick brown curls. She immediately held a finger to her lips and slipped out past the screen door. Apparently they were all bossy, then.

 

“I’m Spe-”

 

“Yeah I know.” She slipped past his outstretched hand and gave him a hug. It was a little jarring to be treated as if she knew him already, but by her description Tucker had already told her everything about Specs short of his shoe size. He awkwardly returned the gesture to a girl who no doubt needed it. “I’m going to bring dad home from the hospital. Tucker’s asleep.”

 

“Of course he is.”

 

“You’re here.” She said with a laugh. Specs couldn’t help but be reminded of Tucker when his guard was down. Beth seemed to possess all of his charm and none of his self-consciousness. The contrast between the depth of her accent and his made it obvious how deliberate Tucker was in concealing his. She appraised him for minute, making no attempt to conceal that she was sizing him up, almost as if to confirm what she had been told. “Thank you for helping.”

 

“It’s no problem. Whatever I can do to help with your dad, it’s fine.”

 

“Oh I meant with Tucker. In California. I get why he doesn’t want to come back here. We’re just glad to know he has someone looking out for him.” She said. He didn’t know what that meant. Tucker could look out for himself, relatively speaking, and though Specs had thought it strange that he never went home on holidays, especially given how close he seemed to his family (which, to be fair, only seemed close by comparison to icy distance that permeated the Kowalski family), he always assumed it was more a question of ability than desire. The whole past few days had been bewildering. He didn’t need to add more mysteries to the pile.

 

With Beth southbound for Tulsa, Specs stepped past the creaky threshold into the Ockley household, a home pieced together by outdated decor, piles of 'get to it later' organization projects, and depression. He could hear the faint sound of Tucker's favorite lullaby, the droning of a QVC salesperson, playing from a family room down the hall from the main entrance. For a moment he forgot all the clever arguments he’d created in the car when he walked in on Tucker, shoes off, feet up, and mouth open asleep in a recliner, tv remote bobbing up and down on his stomach with each breath. Specs sighed. There was his manchild. He needed to take better care to not let it wander off again.

 

All feelings of protective kinship faded quickly with a rising indignation. How dare Tucker sleep while Elise and Specs worried about him? Specs put his foot on the recliner lever and kicked it down, collapsing the chair in one disruptive blow. Tucker snorted as the chair back swung up. It took a minute to catch up to reality. Yes, he was home, and yes, somehow Specs stood in front of him in the ever familiar lecturing stance: hands on his hips, brow raised, and mouth already open ready to give Tucker a _piece of his mind_. There wasn’t a place on earth Specs wouldn’t follow him just to get a word in.

 

“I guess you found my secret hiding place.” He mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

 

“I was in the area the door was open… what the hell is wrong with you?”

 

Tucker took a second to process. His motivation for leaving without a word had been held together by a tenuous series of self-delusions: that his family life and his life with Specs could be kept separate forever; that Elise and Specs wouldn’t actually care too much if he were gone; that he was doing all of this for the good of his family, and his father’s well-being. He wanted to be angry at Specs for violating his obvious wishes to be left alone, but looking at his friend standing in his childhood living room, watching those worlds collide, all he could feel was a sting of shame. Specs wasn’t supposed to see this.

 

“What are you doing here anyway?” Tucker growled. Using his size to create the illusion of anger, he stood up and made as if to walk past Specs.

 

“I’m here to help you, which I could have done sooner if you had told me where you were going.” Specs stepped in Tucker’s way. He had driven twenty hours. He was going to get some answers. “Elise and I went all the way home just see if you were there. We were worried sick.”

 

“My dad was in the hospital, what was I supposed to do?”

 

“You didn’t have to be such a drama queen about it. Slipping out in the night? Ominous notes? We’re not in a Lifetime movie.”

 

“If I wanted your help I would have asked.”

 

“No, you don’t get to be mad at me.” Specs said. Tucker’s eyes scanned the room looking for anything to focus on besides his friend’s broken expression, but Specs grabbed his shoulder, demanding the attention back. What he wanted from Tucker he could always have. “Tucker I’m sorry about your dad, but you have people who care about you, and we’d like a little fucking consideration.”

 

Tucker looked him up and down. He had already made his unrequited love bed and laid in it, but this was an entirely different issue. For years Tucker had managed to be anywhere but home. If he didn’t go home, he didn’t have to remember what happened there, and if he didn’t remember, he didn’t have to deal with it- a perfectly rational, healthy approach to grief. Without Specs and his pesky caring, Tucker could successfully go home, take care of business, and disappear again before anything akin to emotions could stop him. But just as Specs had weaseled his way into every other part of his life, he had now found his way into the worst part, and Tucker knew he wasn’t getting out of here so easily anymore. Specs never considered himself a master of reading body language, but he had known Tucker long enough to tell the difference between the mad scowl and the sad scowl. He softened.

 

“Are you ok?”

 

“Yeah. There wasn’t a lot of permanent damage. He’ll have some issues with mobility but it was pretty minor, overall.”

 

“But are you ok?”

 

Stupid, stubborn Specs. It didn’t matter how hard Tucker tried to fuck him over, he would still be relentlessly, annoyingly dependable. Scouts honor. Tucker hooked him in a headlock/hug and summarized his feelings with a brotherly hair ruffle. “Why the hell are you here, Kowalski?”

 

“Because you can’t take care of yourself.”

 

Specs made clear just how much he thought that to be the case for the next hour. He demanded Tucker call Elise immediately and apologize, before collecting Tucker’s laundry from around the house, making a warm lunch, and tidying a clear path from the front door to the father’s bedroom. Normally Tucker wouldn’t allow anyone to order him around, but Specs acted with such purpose that he didn’t dare stop him. Not to mention Specs enjoyed fixing problems. Tucker couldn’t deny him his fun.

 

Specs had another reason for keeping busy. He and Tucker always made up as easily as they fought. Given enough time, they often forgot what they were mad about in the first place and shifted into their neutral gear, which involved a steady stream of harmless bickering but otherwise no genuine anger. It took only a few minutes of big brown eyes and self-pity for Tucker to escape the wrath he had so carefully cultivated on his ride there, and while their ability to forgive was a strength of the relationship, it left many issues unresolved. Specs’ fundamental question had still gone unanswered. He had never known anyone so closely. He knew how he took his coffee, what brand of deodorant he used, how many beers it took to get him tipsy; every preference, every brand, every taste in anything, he had stored away, but for some reason it felt like Tucker was still hiding things. By now he had to know Specs only had his best interests in mind.

 

When Beth returned with their father, a new anxiety seized Specs. He found himself inexplicably nervous to meet the man. Now, Specs suffered from a baseline level of nervousness around all new people, which he usually overcame by being aggressively polite. Martin Ockley seemed like someone he needed to make an especially good impression on, however. Specs felt like he was picking up a date and needed to assure the father he was going to be a gentleman. They sat together at the kitchen table while Tucker and Beth talked about what the doctor had said. Their muffled voices from the other room were the only sound for a while. Specs quietly poured himself some orange juice.

 

“Was the… grilled cheese ok?”

 

“S’fine.”

 

“Good. Excellent. I, I mean I can get you some more bread for the… what I used up to make it.”

 

The stare. They all had that stare. Specs had gotten used to it with Tucker. He almost forgot how uncomfortable Tucker made him feel the first time they hung out. Looking at Ockley Sr. brought the memories back somehow. Every member of the family seemed to think it was socially acceptable to look into a person’s soul. None of the usual “hello, how are you, I’m fine.” Just raw, uncomfortable staring. Specs tugged at his collar. He should be more patient. The man just had a stroke, after all.

 

“You got him dressing nice.”

 

“Um?” Spec hummed. Martin slid a wallet out of his pocket and flipped through a few photos, mostly of Beth in what looked like prom pictures, before he ended up on one of Tucker and Specs in full uniform in front of the van. He forgot Elise had taken that picture. Apparently Tucker had it printed. He blushed. “That was Elise’s idea. Tucker hates wearing the tie.”

 

Martin cracked a smile. Specs could see where Tucker got his from. They had the same reserved smirk, like they weren’t ready to fully commit to the emotion behind it. “That kid hates anything nice. He just wants to be contrary.” He tapped the pull-tab on his PBR, the first thing he had asked for when he got in the door. Another uncanny similarity between father and son. “Doesn’t take care of himself.”

 

“The clothes on his floor agree.”

 

“He was the same way here. Always made sure Bethany had something clean for school though.” Martin said. Specs observed same mannerisms Tucker used to work his way around to saying something important. Avoiding eye contact, excessive interest in minute details of the room, and voice lowered to a growl. “Never asked him to. He’s proud though, like his mom. We’re just glad he’s got someone looking out for him.”

 

Specs had heard it now from three people, not including himself. He knew what Tucker meant to him. After many recesses spent in the nurse’s office reading, high school gym classes skipped with forged notes in favor of the library, and nights in his own apartment writing articles that would reach the eyes of two dozen people at best, Tucker was his first, best, and only buddy. But here was everyone telling him Tucker needed him back. The information clashed with every hard cast insecurity Specs held. Then again, Tucker had always been the exception.

 

He found Tucker rocking on the front porch wicker after the household had settled, each person to their own restful corner. Specs’ sense of being out of place subsided with the rain. The Ockleys possessed a solemn determination to be decent to each other that he couldn’t understand, but they welcomed him into it without question. Whatever happened to leave their home under the perpetual fog of grief seemed to be the same thing that held them together.

 

“It’s nice.” He said, gesturing to the sunset over the fields of endless monotony on the horizon. Tucker scoffed.

 

“It looks like shit and you know it.” He patted the chair next to him when he saw the beers in Specs’ hands.

 

“I mean.... it’s not so bad. I could never- but you know, I can see why-”

 

“Sit. Open beer. Shut up.”

 

Specs acquiesced, cracking the top and handing Tucker one of the sweating cans. It took every bit of his willpower to keep himself from saying whatever piece of idle chatter entered his mind. Anything to fill the silence. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Tucker looked him over out of the corner of his eye, covering a smile with his beer.

 

“You can’t stand it can you?”

 

“What?”

 

“Being quiet.”

 

“No. I mean, yeah. Just-” He was proving the point. “Sorry, I don’t know why.”

 

“I do.” Tucker said, making no attempt to swallow before he spoke. “You want to fix shit. You think if you just talk about it long enough you can fix it. You take too many philosophy classes for that art major.”

 

“Well if I don’t say it, I’ll probably go crazy.”

 

“What do you want to say, tiger? Lay it on me.” Tucker started the sentence in an attempt to be facetious, but it ended as a genuine question, and he regretted asking it immediately. He had just opened a floodgate. He wasn’t prepared for any serious topic Specs wanted to broach.

 

“I don’t know.” He started every monologue by saying he “didn’t know.” He always knew. “It’s just, I came out here because we’re friends, right? All the way out to this… this. And I didn’t even think about it. Because I just want to help you, but I don’t even know what anyone wants me to do. Everyone keeps saying you need me, but what does that mean? Not that I don’t want to help. I just… I don’t know what you need. So tell me what you need and I’ll do that thing. Anything. And it would be great if you could stop staring at me like that right now.”

 

Tucker looked at him like he was a question on a test he hadn’t studied for. Specs had no way of knowing that the expression in question was Tucker fighting back every urge to tell him _the thing_. What he needed Specs to do was to stop being oblivious, unobtainable, and perfect. He needed him to stop caring. He needed him to do depraved things to him.  Some part of the subconscious mind he had so firmly beaten down reminded Tucker that part of the reason he ran in the first place was to get away from those very needs. Just like he told himself he wouldn’t do. He sighed.

 

“Just...chill with me.”

 

Specs let the command sink in. “I can do that.”

 

“And Specs-”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I really don’t want to talk about my mom yet. I’ll let you know when I do.”


	15. Just my Imagination Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs goes on an epic quest to find Tucker the right Christmas gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy my replica of what Facebook chat looked like in 2007.

**January 2007  
**

 

 Fun fact: my parents think Elise is my

          girlfriend.

 Ha

          Haha

          ha

          Thats amazing

 It's a nightmare

          We all had dinner together and Elise had

          to play along.

          And now I can barely look at her.

          Your fault

 Im so happy for you both

          couldnt have happened to better people

 ...

e4

 I can't play right now, I'm writing.

e4

          stop writing

 d5

e to d5

          what are you writing?

          little hearts around elises name?

 Queen to d5

it was just a little baby pawn

          Queen babykiller

          but you always liked to flaunt your queen

          pony to c3

 It's a knight

          If you don't follow regulations you

          forfeit

you should move, my pony will not

          be stopped

 Queen a5

bishop c4

Knight f6

d4

          look at that queen

          sitting out here all alone

          it would be a shame if something were

          to happen to it....

Knight c6

         Nothing will happen to it

unless...

          bishop to d2

 If you really care what I'm writing,

          it's a piece on psychic sensitivity

          in children.

          Knight d4

you can't resist that sweet sweet

          pawn bait, can you?

          pony to b5

Queen b6

you know any psychic kids?

 I don't make the acquaintance of many

          children.

          It's your move.

thats good to know

          bishop e3

 Queen a5

          stop it

you stop it

          bd2

 Stop following me. Queen b6

give up buttercup

          games a draw

          be3, then b6, and on it goes forever

 Not if you send your men away and

          let me go free.

does my bishop scare you? are you

          having flashbacks to being an altar

          boy?

Ok draw

where on the doll?

Draw

is that your safe word?

 That's my shut up word, when I

          am trying to write.

gg

 gg

          How's your dad feeling?

 fine

          annoyed i guess

          he doesn't like sitting around

 Why didn't you inherit that from him? 

 just to annoy you my friend

 I'm getting off now

 tmi

 off the computer

 whatever you want to call it

          night

 Night

 

Specs closed his laptop. “New Millenium: Children of the Third Eye” would have to hit the presses another day. Tucker’s absence in last month had given him more time to focus on his own projects than he’d had in since the day they met, but the disruption to his schedule made it hard to concentrate. After a week in Oklahoma, Specs began to suspect Tucker wouldn’t be coming back with him right away. He’d never seen him so glum, nor so responsible, though he could understand why. A combination of feeling he owed them something after years of absence and a need to step up as the man of the house left him with one conclusion. So when Tucker told him, with all the usual hemming and hawing that serious conversations entailed, that he needed to stay a month or two until things were “straightened out,” Specs wasn’t surprised. What surprised him is how much it bothered him. The decision made sense, but on a selfish level Specs would prefer to cart Tucker home and return to the status quo, if for no reason other than his own personal comfort.  
  
They began their goodbye with manly handshakes and playful demands to stay in touch. Specs couldn’t help but feeling there was something they wanted to say, but they were both quite good at ignoring the obvious. Each assumed the other knew. It didn’t need to be said. Tucker only halted him once, after he’d climbed in the van. “Tell Elise I love her, ok?” He said quietly, as if he didn’t want to hear himself say it. Specs nodded, adding that he would do his best to replicate the signature Tucker bear hug, before he began his escape from the terrifying wasteland called Oklahoma.  
  
Specs found himself spending more time with Elise to fill the void. She did her best to keep him company, but for all her good intentions, she proved a poor substitute. Inside jokes went over her head, video game controls were a bit outside of her expertise, and while she cooked him a healthy meal every night, nothing compared to the warm comfort of a Tucker special. When he first moved in, Tucker had disrupted every part of his meticulous schedule. Now Specs’ routine depended on having Tucker around. Tucker made the food, and the money for that matter. He ran the equipment, tuned up the van, got the damned toaster oven running again when it decided to die- which just so happened to be the project at hand for the night. Specs knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he had at least given it his best try. He watched Tucker solder the wire last time. It couldn’t be too hard. The hard part would be getting to the soldering iron past the sea garbage in the garage.  
  
Things were worse than he even imagined when Specs opened the garage door. The garage had long become something of a cosmic mystery to him; a portal to the Sixth Dimension that only Tucker could safely pass through. Used car parts, wires, and vintage toys entered, only to emerge as borescopes, lux meters, and every so often, as coasters. How Tucker could accomplish any of this without a coherent organization system was baffling.  
  
Specs began to wade across the knee deep pile of electronics and clothes. He definitely stepped on what might have been an old hot pocket. Or a dead animal. And was a hand pulling him under? He practically jumped the last foot toward the workbench and clamored on to the rickety shop stool. Apparently he owed Charon an obol for safe passage.  
  
“Ok Tucker. Where. is. the soldering iron…?” Specs began to rifle through the various tools on the bench. Tucker had amassed a rather impressive collection. He picked up a hay hook, then wondered why Tucker needed a hay hook. This was the bedroom of a madman. If he found bodies decaying in a drum full of acid it wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest. Specs sighed and gave up after a few minutes. He couldn’t find what he was looking for in such a mess. The only solution would be to tidy up first. Just a bit.  
  
Three hours later, “just a bit” became a full renovation, and suddenly fixing the toaster oven had become a lot more in depth. Specs confirmed that the squish underfoot had, in fact, been a hot pocket, which had to be no less than two months old. He tried to find like objects and sort them into Tucker’s extensive pile of milk crates. A small colony of ants had taken up residence under the workbench. He let them go in peace. For all he knew Tucker was keeping them as pets. It wasn’t until he could almost see the floor that an unselfish thought entered his mind: Tucker probably wouldn’t like this very much. No doubt he preferred to have his socks drying on meat hooks, and he probably knew to look for his trifieldmeter two clicks east of the used vacuum collection. Still, Specs had been consumed by an impulse he couldn’t control, and the sense of relief he felt by the time he cleared a path to the bed made up for any lingering guilt. He would have to do something to quell Tucker’s wrath when he came back. Redirty the room? Trying that might kill him.  
  
The question carried him into the morning, when suddenly he had an idea. He still needed to buy Tucker a belated Christmas gift. Specs prided himself on being a good gift giver. Every holiday that had passed since they moved in together had come with a thoughtful gift. Guitar Hero. A copper wire stripper. One year’s subscription to the hot sauce of the month club. Weird things Tucker appreciated. This time, however, he would need to find something special enough that Tucker would look past his indiscretion in the garage, and the only idea he could come up with was an ant farm. Specs’ quest was clear: he had to go to the one person who understood Tucker better than he did; the man who knew his deepest desires; arbiter of his fate.  
  
Vernon Becker, mysteriously the only brother of Becker Bros. Salvage, presided over one glorious, trash filled block of central LA. Despite being such a luminary member of society and personal hero of Tucker’s, Vernon, or Vern to just about anyone, appeared to actually live on the garbage lot itself. Specs had waited in the car one or two times when Tucker needed to make a trade or pickup at the salvage yard, but he never passed the threshold into Vern’s “office” to introduce himself to the man. He could only picture the guy ol’ bambooing around like Caractacus Potts, cooking junkyard rats over a fire on the spokes of bicycle wheel for sustenance. This time, however, he had no choice. He needed to enter Tucker’s world to find him the right gift. So with great reluctance, Specs drove over and marched up to Vern’s front door.  
  
His first impression when Vern opened the door matched up pretty well to what he had imagined. Vern was tall, leathery, soot covered, and sporting a welder’s apron and mask. He snapped the mask up to reveal the face of a kindly old man with sparkling blue eyes. Maybe he really was Dick Van Dyke.  
  
“Wait wait.” He said, holding up one hand covered in a rubber glove. “You’re Specs.”  
  
“Uhum. Yes.” Specs couldn’t get used to people knowing who he was before he knew them. Did Tucker hand out head shots of him or something?  
  
“Your glasses gave it away.” Vern said. Ah yes, the flaw in his disguise. His glasses were doing better gaining recognition than most of the aspiring starlets in town. They were going to need their own agent soon. “I sold him those lights. And that van too. Ah, yeah, come in. Yeah he talks about you all the time…” Vern left the door open behind him and shambled back in to his office, which looked like a smaller and thankfully cleaner version of Tucker’s garage. At least being that there was a clear path from the door to the counter. Specs stepped inside, careful not to hit his head on the low hanging hub cap display. “How’s he been? In uh…”  
  
“Um… Oklahoma. You know he’s there, then?” Specs bumped into a mannequin and quickly tried to upright it before Vern noticed, patting it on the shoulders as if to apologize.  
  
“Oh yeah. We talked on the phone a few times.” Vern rounded the other side of his counter and swept away a few nuts and bolts to clear space between them. “What a polite kid.”  
  
“Yeah. Right. Well I’m actually here because…”  
  
“Because you need to ask old Santa Clause what Tucker wants for Christmas? Right? I’m right aren’t I?”  
  
“So you have something?” Specs lit up. Vern laughed and spread his arms as if to gesture to the sprawling mess around him.  
  
“I have everything.” He tapped the side of his nose. “Fans, fan belts, belts, tuners, jacks, socket switches-“  
  
“I have no idea what that even is-“  
  
“socket wrenches, socks, doll socks, doll houses, toys of all kinds: Gebruders, Dorfans, Shucos. Ah, no. Tucker hates German brands. He doesn’t want to play with them though, does he? He wants to cut them up and turn them into Frankensteins. Not that I mind. Once it’s off the lot it’s not mine to say what happens to it. And who am I to argue with genius? No. There’s just one thing I haven’t given him yet. Can’t come up with the right price for it. But maybe you can?”  
  
“I don’t have a lot.” Specs looked down. He imagined his father’s reaction to seeing any transaction at Becker Bros. Salvage on his bank statement. He didn’t really have a plan for how to acquire the gift once he got there.  
  
“It’s not a matter of money.” Vern, kindly wizard of garbage, leaned over the counter on his elbows as if ready to share a secret. “Here, we’re all about the right trade.”  
  
Specs didn’t know how to play the trading game. Tucker bartered like a Bangkok street vendor, and not just at the junkyard. He liked to wheel and deal with restaurant coupons and argue for discounts on slightly damaged products at chain stores; even with Specs, he assumed everything was open to a point by point debate until he got what he wanted out of the deal. Specs found it embarrassing, mostly because he couldn’t picture himself being so pushy, but for now he would need to channel his inner Tucker.  
  
“I would need to see it first. I don’t even know what it is.”  
  
“I don’t really know either.” Vern said. He smacked the top of the counter as if to put a period on the sentence. Specs flinched. Before he could recover, Vern was already shuffling toward the back door that led out into the yard. He led Specs past piles of flattened cars and a graveyard of appliances before reaching another shed at the corner of the lot. It took a surprisingly robust shove from the old man to get the door open, but once they were inside Specs saw exactly what Vern wanted to show him. Propped on a chair in the cluttered shed sat an extremely antiquated gas mask and what looked to him like HVAC parts. If his war documentaries taught him anything, he would guess the mask was early WWI. It combined the right elements of creepy and clunky to be just the sort of thing Tucker would want.  
  
“Well that’s… disturbing.”  
  
“That’s right.” Vern patted the mask. “A man came by six months ago with this. Dropped it off and didn’t want anything for it. He said it was haunted.”  
  
Specs suddenly became more interested. No wonder Tucker wanted it. He didn’t know what purpose Tucker might put it to, but maybe he could write about it in the meantime. A haunted mask, maybe worn by a poor, terror-stricken civilian in preparation for an impending air raid. Just the sort of gruesome thing Specs liked to spend his time thinking about. “What do you want for it?”  
  
“What do you have?”  
  
Specs thought for a minute. What did people like Vern find valuable?  
  
Not long after he was in Tucker’s garage again, arranging the gas mask on the very mannequin he assaulted earlier. Vern had thrown it in on the trade. Specs took great care in the presentation. The mannequin faced the garage door where Tucker would park his bike, and all the assorted hoses and adapters he didn’t understand the purpose of were collected in a produce crate nearby. He stepped back to look at his work. Sure, Tucker would notice the clean floor and the earthy scent of a pine air freshener, but there was no way he could ignore Specs’ most thoughtful gift to date.  
  
He thought his solution to the riddle had been rather clever. Vern wanted oddities. He wanted things you couldn’t find anywhere else. And he wanted stories. So Specs gave him the only thing he had that people seemed to notice: his glasses. He had another pair -which he wore presently, despite the fact that they were held together with electrical tape across the bridge- but the pair he had given Vern were the glasses that had witnessed the haunting of the Centennial apartment building; the glasses he wore during the freeing of Quinn Brenner; the glasses that were present when Oliver North passed to the other side. They had a story, and a story Vern could sell, just as he had sold Specs the story Tucker wanted.  
  
Specs surveyed the garage for a minute. He loved a good before and after, but he had come out here for something else. The memories all snapped back into place. The soldering iron. The toaster oven. The toast he had been trying to make. He squinted at the one patch of garage yet untouched by his cleaning hands. Tucker’s bed remained covered in laundry. Specs couldn’t be sure if it was clean or dirty, and he certainly didn’t want to investigate, but it was last place the iron could be. He started to pick through, instinctively sorting the clothes into darks and whites, folding what seemed clean, and plucking the lint out of pockets. It was like digging through layers of sediment into the past, each layer revealing fossils of Tucker’s many fads: flannel shirts, studded bracelets, a patched denim jacket. Specs cringed when he picked up a pair of shredded black jeans. They were his least favorite pants. Luckily Tucker hadn’t worn them (or just thought he had lost them in the pile) since last year.  
  
He felt a crunch in the pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Probably a reminder to pick up burrito ingredients or something. Only the paper was far too high a quality for a philistine like Tucker to appreciate. Specs ran his finger along the fold. There could be no mistake- this was his medium grain, 100% cotton, 200 gram per square meter sketchbook paper. He opened the folds, rushing like a concerned father to make sure his baby hadn't been defaced. The reveal left him with a mix of emotions. In his hand was an old self-portrait -something he'd drawn around the same time last year- and while he was mad to see it creased, not to mention the fact that it had been stolen at all, he couldn't help but be struck by a strange implication.  
  
He sat down on the bed and let the thought brew a bit. He had never been particularly observant, no, and he had inherited his father's talent for self-delusion, but somehow years of evidence were just now beginning to siphon through, leading to one mounting conclusion. Tucker had a picture of him. And he had kept it for a while. And secretly. And sometimes he said things... affectionate things. Memories of sidelong glances gone unnoticed, suspiciously thoughtful gestures, and genuine talks all swirled in Specs' head like a montage sequence; a moment of Hitchcockian epiphany for the world's most oblivious man. Finally he got it.  
  
"Oh."

 

 

marco

          marco

          i can see your on, dude  
  
Polo  
  
did you finish?  
  
Um  
  
the article

          dirty mind  
  
No. It's not turning out the way I wanted  
  
bummer  
  
Yeah I think I have something else

          now anyway  
  
tell me

          telll me  
  
It's a secret  
  
we don't keep secrets in this family

          young man

          alright

          fine

          don't tell me

          i dont care

          whatever...  
  
You just have to wait  
  
speaking of which  
  
What?  
  
idk

          i might be here longer than i thought  
  
Is your dad ok?  
  
yeah. i just need some more time

          that ok?  
  
Yeah  
  
are you sure?  
  
Take as much time as you need.

          Elise and I are handling the

          investigations just fine

          And the house is cleaner these days  
  
im glad i can remove such a burden

          from you  
  
You're not a burden  
  
but you two seriously do need me to

          run all that shit  
  
Not really, we're doing ok  
  
nah

          hey

          hey  
  
What?  
  
e4  
  
d5


	16. Just my Imagination Pt. 2

**February 2007**

 

Specs stood in his front yard, elbow deep in potting soil, wondering why he did the things he did for Elise. She was lovely, and usually right about everything, but planting snapdragons in his yard had to be one of his least favorite ideas. He hated the unrelenting California sun, mocking him with how bright it could be in the middle of winter. He hated having dirt under his fingernails. He hated the fact that years of working to make his yard look as “straight” as humanly possible were being undone. But a distraction was a distraction, and he took any he could get these days.

 

Waiting for Tucker to come home had been like waiting for a jack-in-the-box to pop: a slow buildup of anticipation, mounting terror as the song wound around to an end, all leading to one heart-stopping surprise. At least, that had been his experience with jack-in-the-boxes as a boy. The only difference being that, instead of a clown popping out, it would be all of the feelings Specs had so carefully stuffed away. He still hadn’t fully defragmented the new information. Tucker had feelings for him. This begged the question of why, first and foremost, followed by how and since when. His mind refused to accept it. It did not compute. Seeing him again would probably cause Specs to short circuit. So it was with great dread that he realized he could hear Tucker’s Kawasaki thundering up in the distance. It was his Pop Goes the Weasel.

 

Specs stood up, hitting his head on the window box he had been digging under. He remained disappointingly conscious. He assumed he would at least get some warning before Tucker came back, but in retrospect it would be just like Tucker to drive home completely unannounced. He probably thought it was funny. For a minute Specs braced himself like squirrel ready to dart away from the closest snapping twig, but his fight and flight instincts failed, and before he knew it the predator had arrived.

 

Tucker, on the other hand, was feeling an entirely different sort of anticipation. He had mustered every reserve of manly cool-headedness, but he couldn’t help but feel a pang of excitement when he saw the house, and Specs in front of it in particular. After months with his family, he still felt like he was just now coming home. Tucker hoped spending some time apart would make it easier for him to distance himself from his feelings, but it had only left him wanting Specs more. He tried to remember the rules: don’t tell him, don’t touch him, don’t break down and ask him to be the father of your adopted children.

 

Elise opened the front door just as Tucker rolled into the driveway. She gave Specs a little squeeze on the shoulders out of excitement. He smiled. For all his anxiety, he couldn’t help but feel some relief to see Tucker back where he belonged. Tucker whipped off his helmet to reveal another relief to Specs: he had grown his hair back out. He spat in the driveway and hopped off the bike as casually as he might coming home from the grocery store.

 

“Tucker.” Elise said, walking to him with arms wide. He scooped her up into a hug and spun her around. Specs felt briefly envious. Tucker was always more affectionate with Elise than he ever felt comfortable being. He awkwardly kicked the dirt in his garden, trying not to intrude on their reunion, but Tucker had no intention of leaving him out of it. In two steps he was in front of Specs. He hugged him around the shoulders, picking him up off the ground entirely and shaking him back and forth like a squeaky toy.

 

“I missed you so fucking much.” He growled. Hugs from Tucker would now come with new meaning to him, but somehow it was comforting to be reminded that Tucker was still his friend. He had spent weeks worrying about their friendship alone in his own head. Seeing Tucker in person actually broke him out of his anxiety spiral.

 

“Your hair looks good.” Specs said, trying to come up with anything in response. Tucker laughed and put him down.

 

“You got kind of fat.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“What are you doing out here? I thought your kind couldn’t be in direct sunlight.”

 

“It only weakens my powers.”

 

Tucker looked him over, forgetting to contain himself for a second. Specs looked a textbook nerd, right down to the stereotypically taped glasses and lost, terrified expression whenever he found himself outside four walls. Tucker loved it. Where the fetish had come from he had no idea. He did stand up for a lot of smaller boys on the playground back in the day. He wasn't tough, but he was tall, and that counted for a lot in the fourth grade.

 

What Specs had once been oblivious to he was now keenly aware of. Tucker's hands lingered on his shoulders. His eyes, which before seemed rude and dominating in their relentless stare, now looked nervous. The best friend he thought he knew hadn't changed entirely, only gained a new shade. He blushed and hoped it would look like nothing more than sunburn. Feelings had yet to be decided, but by no means would he give Tucker the satisfaction of thinking he had charmed him.

 

The charm quickly wore off when Tucker tossed his backpack into Specs’ arms and started heading inside with Elise. Specs shook the bag. There were definitely more than a few frozen rest-stop taquitos in there. Those were apparently more important than a change of socks.

 

Specs successfully kept Tucker from going in the garage right away. He cooked scrambled eggs while Elise and Tucker caught up, sitting at the dining room table going over photos of Oklahoma on his Blackberry. Specs couldn’t imagine how it kept their attention. Every shot was brown, flat earth and blue sky. Occasionally a cow or a windmill featured. Truly fascinating scenery.

 

“Breakfast for lunch.” Specs said as he bustled over with the pan of eggs. Tucker checked his watch.

 

“Breakfast for breakfast, in my book.”

 

“Don’t start.” Elise said. She had just been getting used to the peace, or relative peace. Specs still showed up at odd hours of the night to ask her opinions on the illusion of linearity in the life versus the afterlife. “Let’s have one nice meal before we start the races, shall we?”

 

It felt right to have the three of them around the table. Elise had her chicks in the nest again. She was proud of Tucker for supporting his family. It would take time to get him to open up about his life, but he had made steps in the right direction. She had known Specs and Tucker for almost a year and already she saw them both maturing. They were overgrown children, between the bickering, the video games, and the Chef Boyardee, but they had only grown more respectful and kind, like proper young men. Proper young men who put half a bottle of ketchup on their eggs.

 

“Tucker.” Specs said as he watched him cover his plate in ketchup. Like he hadn't even left, Tucker always found a way to barge in and take what he wanted. Specs frowned. “Why not just ask for a bowl and a spoon?”

 

“I like it this way.”

 

“I can see that. Just-” He reached over and grabbed the bottle. “I’d like to keep our grocery bill from doubling now that you’re back.”

 

“Calling me fat, Kowalski?”

 

“No. I don’t know where all the food you eat goes. Your stomach opens up to non-dimensional space, which is good because if it were a real stomach you would need a transplant by now.”

 

“Hey. Ketchup is good for you. It’s a vegetable.”

 

“Ketchup is the shade of a vegetable that once was.”

 

Specs revelled in the comfort of their familiar banter, like an unspoken reassurance that the facade would be maintained, at least for a little while. Yes, keeping everything the same would be perfect. As long as no one said anything, admitted anything, they could go on averting their eyes from the elephant a bit longer. Specs had that down to an art form.

 

“Well,” Tucker began after he inhaled his breakfast/lunch. “Nap time.”

 

A new panic seized Specs. Memories of a soldering iron induced cleaning frenzy, hazy in a fog of Lysol, came back to him. He hoped the gift would make an acceptable sacrifice for his sins. Specs followed on Tucker’s heels under the pretense of helping with his bag. He primed himself to explain the anti-mess.

 

“You… idiot.” Tucker said when he swung the door open.

 

“I know, I know. I didn’t mean to, it’s just, I really wanted toast, but I couldn’t find the iron, and then I stepped on something and it all just sort of happened. There were wires and tools everywhere. I don’t know what came over me. It was like blood lust. It’s honestly all just a blur.”

 

“Not that. The mask.” Tucker stepped into the garage without tripping for the first time since he moved in. He circled the gas mask. Specs didn’t understand what he did wrong.

 

“Vern said you wanted it.”

 

Tucker facepalmed. “Yeah. For you. It was supposed to be your Christmas gift. I thought you’d want to do an article or something stupid.”

 

Specs groaned, realizing the irony of the real story Vern wanted. How terribly adorable that he had bought the very gift Tucker wanted to buy for him. That was probably the way an old man living alone in a shed got his jollies. Tucker only laughed though. The fact that Specs had even gone to Vern in the first place was touching in its own right. He did make it difficult not to love him. As for the garage, he sort of assumed Specs would clean it while he was gone. He couldn’t be blamed for his strange addictions. Tucker was just glad he didn't look under the mattress.

 

“How’d you get him to give it to you?” Tucker asked.

 

“I gave him my glasses. The good ones.”

 

Tucker stifled a smile. “That’s why you look like such a dork.”

 

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

 

Elise came over and put an arm around Specs’ shoulder. “Maybe a new toaster oven would make a better gift?”

 

The next week or so passed easily, with everyone falling back into their respective roles like nothing had changed. Specs remained alert for any sign of Tucker’s interest in him. He still didn’t fully believe what he had learned. It couldn’t be justified against his own insecurities. All those years he assumed Tucker would be more interested in some beanie wearing, home-brewing guy- the sort of art student Specs had never managed to be. Hypothetical romance had been so far out of the question from that standpoint alone. But all the things he had once been oblivious to now stood out. Tucker did like to trollop around without a shirt on quite a bit. He always made a point of fixing things in front of him. And suddenly Specs could see the double entendre in everything Tucker said. It all felt so alien.

 

Specs hadn’t even stopped to consider how he felt in response. Opening that door could be dangerous. Sure, he had thought about it before, usually alone in bed at night, but he was always careful to put those ideas back where they belonged. Years of sort-of boyfriends sequestered away into acceptable parts of his life had taught him how to keep a straight face, literally and figuratively. Specs wasn’t the sort of person who desperately needed to be in a relationship, anyway. He often went months, even years, without much contact, so to speak, and it never bothered him much. His work had always been his closest companion, at least until Tucker came along, and with ample distraction he had managed to convince himself that he was content. But he was only a man, and occasionally that led him to short lived flings where he felt terribly guilty of leading the other person on. He never meant to be a heartbreaker. Everything always started with the best of intentions, but when things started to get too serious and the parents seemed to get too close to the truth, he always fizzled out. It never seemed worth the risk of losing his family.

 

He found himself fighting away these thoughts one night while Tucker sat up watching the episodes of Battlestar Galactica Specs had taped for him. Apparently they didn’t get the best cable packages in Sperry. Specs tried to work on “Death Mask: Gas from the Past” for Spectral Sightings, but the sound of Tucker chomping on popcorn kept pulling his attention back to the present day. He sighed, planting his chin on his hand and allowing himself a minute to look at Tucker. Had anyone told him that the jerk who emailed him three years ago would still be sitting on his couch, possibly vying for his affection, Specs would have laughed. Their friendship came naturally, however, and they were now to the point where everything they did was intertwined. They ran a business together, rented a house together, and spent most of their waking hours in each other’s company. Their existence in each other’s lives felt like an incontrovertible truth, a law of reality.

 

With his guard momentarily down, a scary question entered Specs’ mind before he could stop it. Did he love Tucker? The immediate answer was obvious. Of course he did. They had been inseparable for years now. Without a moment’s hesitation he knew he would jump in front of a moving train for him. And, just as he had once unconsciously assumed that he would spend his life alone, he now expected to spend every day with Tucker, presumably into old age. He felt the same way about Elise, however, so could it be anything more than simple platonic love?

 

Sexually, it was a no brainer. Only prudence had kept him from crossing that line already. He had known Tucker long enough that he could see past the superficial reasons to find him sexy, which he had in abundance, and be attracted to the more subtle qualities like his loyalty and big heart that took a bit of digging to appreciate. When he examined it, they already had the attraction, the care, and the companionship many romantic relationships took time to develop, but he had ignored a romantic facet of their relationship for so long he wasn’t sure if he could change his thinking now. Not to mention the one impossibly scary obstacle standing between them.

 

Specs let the familiar feeling of disappointment take over. He couldn’t afford to think of Tucker that way. Not if he wanted to save their friendship. He wasn’t going to date him, then break up with him when his parents got suspicious. No. If it was Tucker, it was all or nothing. Forever. And he wouldn’t be able to hide it. They would have to be together- properly, openly together. To ask anything else of him would be unfair. A purely sexual relationship, tempting as it had always been, was out of the question too, because it would only lead him on further.

 

One final, painful thought gripped Specs. Maybe Tucker was the one worth losing his parents for. If it was anyone, wouldn’t it be him? But the moment the thought entered his mind he panicked. He had no explanation for why he depended on his parents so much. They had always been there, steering his life, and no matter how hard he pushed for his own independance, no matter how far outside of their wishes his work and style and dreams went, there was one thing he couldn’t bring himself to challenge them on. A part of him realized they knew. Why else would they bring it up so often, or work so hard to make sure he had an eligible girl in front of him at all times. They knew, and they wanted him to keep quiet about it, and he was too afraid to do anything otherwise.

 

“Earth to Specs.” Tucker’s voice snapped him back to the moment. Tucker stood at the other side of the table, waving to him as if to direct him down a landing strip. “You’re zoning again. Flashbacks to ‘Nam?”

 

Specs stared at him for a second like a fish. “I uh. No. Just writer’s block.”

 

“You need to lay of the benzo, Steve.”

 

He could actually use one right now.

 

“I’m- I think I’m going to take a shower.”

 

Tucker backed off teasing him when Specs stood up, glassy eyed, and walked out of the room like a zombie. If he didn’t know any better he’d think something more than writer’s block was going on. Specs had been acting weird since he got back. Well, weirder than usual. Tucker hated to think something had changed since he went away. Not that he expected his prospects to improve, romantically speaking. He'd signed himself away to that already. But it did seem like Specs was looking at him longer, speaking to him differently, considering something. Tucker shook his head. It couldn't be. Just wishful thinking.

 

Regardless, something was bugging him, and a few minutes later Tucker couldn't help but check. He walked up to the bathroom and rested his forehead on the door, listening to the whistle of Specs' hot water. Inside, Specs stood in the shower, doing no showering of any kind. He leaned his head back on the wall and let the water run down his face. All the better to cover the fact that he was tearing up. Allergies, of course.

 

"You ok?" Tucker called.

 

"I'm fine." Specs meant to sound irritated, but it came out cracked and pitiful. He tried again. "Fine."

 

Specs waited for a follow up question. He just wanted Tucker to go away. They worked so well when they pretended not to care. The pride, the competition, all roundabout ways of avoiding the inevitable, like an endless game of bullshit ping pong. Tucker teased, Specs got mad, Tucker batted his eyelashes, Specs forgave, and the issue at hand never had to be dealt with. It wasn't healthy, but it worked, and Specs wasn't ready for it to change. Hearing Tucker's concern on the other side of the door didn't make it easier. It just reminded him how good of a friend he stood to lose.

 

Luckily Tucker didn't push the issue. Specs finished his not shower and went straight to his room to read for awhile, ostensibly to avoid Tucker further. He felt he was well within his margin for safety when midnight rolled around. Unless they were on a job, Tucker usually went to bed around ten o'clock, whether he managed to drag himself to his futon, fell asleep on the couch, or landed somewhere in between. Specs snuck out and was relieved to find Tucker had crossed the finish line on this particular night. The light of the tv blinked across the empty living room. The sound of snoring could be heard faintly just beyond the garage door. Sitting on the kitchen island Specs noticed a crumpled bag of Chinese takeout with a note attached, written on a napkin. 'Eat Crab Rangoon. Stop being sad,' it read. He smiled ruefully. It was a bittersweet comfort. Some part of him vaguely acknowledged that he and Tucker would never do anything to intentionally hurt one another, but another part acknowledged that it might be inevitable despite their best efforts. He dug his food out of the bag and crawled onto the couch, boredly watching whatever late night slasher Tucker had left on the tv.

 

Specs tried to remind himself that nothing had changed yet. He only knew more than he had before. There would be plenty of time to think things over to better understand how he felt. Specs had two seemingly opposite tendancies. The first was to take a slow, reasoned approach to things, collecting all of the information like a field researcher piecing together evidence, until he was confident to move forward. He made many decisions this way, like what bank to open a savings account with, or what to write about next. However, there was a part of him that could and often did make spontaneous decisions, usually in response to a very strong emotion. It was the part of him that would jump into danger to help someone else or pursue a mystery down a long, dark hallway. That was the part he feared he wouldn't be able to control with this Tucker business. That was the part that could hurt his friend if he didn't keep it in check. Because sitting up, eating stale chinese food, all he could think about was saying fuck it and climbing into bed with Tucker right then and there. But the better part of him remembered that being a good friend was his first and most important priority, and he had no intention of leading him on, because Tucker wasn't just a good friend, he was his only friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favorite part about this story is naming Specs' zine articles.


	17. Higher Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker spells out a few abbreviations. Both learn to be just a little bit more grown up.

**June 2007**

"First Annual Parapsychology Conference of Los Angeles." Specs read. Piled in with the usual hate mail and coupons this morning was an ad for a paranormal convention, printed in fading ink and decorated with clip art. Tucker, who had just sidled out of his garage, walked up behind Specs and looked over his shoulder. He tried to spell it out.

"F-A-P...Heh. FAPCOLA. Refreshing."

Specs blushed and tried to ignore Tucker. That thought could be stored away for a less wholesome hour of the day. He had been writing about the need for a proper network system of paranormal investigators for years. Conferences, call lists, references- in his opinion, the whole operation needed to be handled with the same structure and rigorous policy-making as healthcare. Someone must have had the same idea and created this conference. He wondered why they hadn't thought to contact him. Sure, Spectral Sightings wasn't a nationally recognizable name, but he'd created a pretty distinct brand for himself in the LA area. At least he believed. Regardless, the prospect of a conference was exciting; an opportunity to meet other believers and cross-reference their methodology, maybe even make new friends. Not that he didn't like his current friends, or friend.

"It's this weekend. We should go."

"Nah." Tucker said and patted Specs on the back. Specs frowned. He had an almost perfect precognition for when Tucker would dismiss his ideas. Even before he said them, he could hear the "nah" forming, like a douchebag muscle reflex Tucker never attempted to control. He had actually tested it before, suggesting things Tucker might actually like, only to have him say "nah" before he even processed what Specs asked him. Nothing got Specs grinding his teeth faster than being dismissed, especially considering Tucker had no good reason to do so other than wanting to be contrary, and yet he would cling so stubbornly to the decision after he made it you'd think it actually mattered to him. But the argument itself never mattered; only the reaction it raised.

"Why not?" Specs said with a dramatic exhale. He knew better than to engage the behavior, but he really wanted to go, and he wasn't going to give up that easily. "This could be a great way to meet other people like us and make new friends."

"What are we, seven? Do you want to walk up to other grownups and ask if they want to be friends?" Tucker started heating up a cup of curry vegetables, which was breakfast, apparently.

"We could. I mean, we could try."

"No."

"Why?"

"Bunch of weirdos go to conventions."

"We're weird."

"We're _our_ weird. I don't want to spend the day with Ghostbusters cosplayers."

Specs mumbled a few unintelligible come backs while he tried to think of how to persuade Tucker. He was always more clever in his own head. "Then just think of it as a business venture. We see what other people are doing, maybe get some new ideas."

"Nah." Tucker said. Infuriating. He pulled his food out of the microwave and headed for the couch. "It's gonna be a bunch of cons peddling their cheap plastic Secret Sam spy kits and wannabes who still think ghosts float around in white sheets. Nothing you can learn from them. Why do you care?"

"I don't know. We could stand to meet new people." Specs said. He tried to convince himself this wasn't a ploy to extend his friend group outside of Tucker, but the whole relationship question might be easier to answer if they weren't so pathetically attached to each other. Even now, he realized he still needed Tucker to go with him to the convention in order to feel comfortable around other people. What had happened to him? Mr. Independent no more. The worst part was that he didn't really want to make any other friends. He just felt like he needed to. Apparently Tucker had no such conviction. "Why don't you care?"

"I have everything I need right here." Tucker said it offhandedly, but it came off sounding sentimental anyway. He let it slip by. He was doing a lot of that lately. Not to mention all of Specs' talk about these "other people" and "new friends" freaked him out. He felt the need to restake his territory. After years of preemptively pushing people away, he'd found a person he liked, and abandonment issues being what they were, he had no intention of letting go. Or letting anyone else squeeze into the mix. It was irrational to equate making new friends to Specs abandoning him entirely, but he was stubborn, and he kept things the way he liked them. Tucker kicked his legs up onto the arm of the sofa.

"Feet down." Specs said without even looking.

"But mom..."

Specs walked over and scooted his feet down. He tossed the ad for FAPCOLA onto Tucker's stomach. "I want to go."

"Then go."

"I want us to go."

Tucker tossed his head back dramatically to stare at the ceiling. All the better to avoid the big, manipulative eyes. Specs was doing his foot down routine with a splash of whining. Tucker had already decided to say yes. He just needed a minute to settle his ego. Besides, Specs said the magic word: 'us.'

"If we go-" He started.

"Yes!"

" _If we go we_ take the bike. I don't want anyone poking around the van."

"You know, technically it's my van."

"Technically it's mine, because my name's on the title."

"Technically you sold my car for it."

"Technically a station wagon is not a car."

Specs lost the battle but was content with winning the war. He had tried to ride the motorcycle a handful of times over the years, each time no less terrifying than the last, but it was a worthwhile compromise. He'd already worked himself up by the weekend, only for disappointment, in Tucker's opinion. Reality seemed to match his prediction rather than Specs' when they rolled up to a hotel parking lot downtown, where already he could spot people in costumes. Tucker fancied himself rather a bit cooler than all these people. Sure, he made his living as a paranormal investigator, and sure he was an unrepentant movie buff, comic book fan, and collector of vintage children's toys, but at least he kept a grip on himself about all of it. Then there was Specs. Specs represented all the unbridled passion for hobbies that made Tucker uncomfortable around other self-professed nerds, but he got a free pass in Tucker's book. It was cute when Specs did it. Maybe it was that Tucker knew him better. Maybe it was the oxytocin that pumped into his brain whenever Specs was near. Either way, these other people just looked like idiots to him.

Specs hopped off the bike with the same bounce he did every time, like the thing would explode at a moment's notice. At least in his terrified state he didn't have to worry about getting an erection cozied up to the back of Tucker. It would take hours before he could unclench his jaw, much less the rest of his body. Tucker was a different story, but he'd had years of practice hiding it anyway. He climbed off the bike and took Specs' helmet from his shaking hands.

"Let's get this over with." He sighed.

"You promised me a full day, no bailing." Specs wagged a finger at him. Tucker slapped on a fake smile and gestured as if to say 'lead the way.' Specs appraised him suspiciously one last time before he started toward the hotel. Where Tucker pictured Amityville Horror fans and freaks, Specs pictured complex dialogue with like-minded individuals, and when they stepped inside the hall both thought they were right. Specs looked like an overstimulated puppy taking it all in. There were stands for self-published paranormal experts and rows of merchants. He didn’t know where to start. Tucker groaned internally. Posers, all of them.

Specs started with the books. These would be the people to talk to; the ones with ideas and experiences similar to his own. Only the first stand was a guy promoting a book that clearly propagated the very sensationalistic writing that Specs worked to negate- nothing more than a collection of loosely connected stories and unverifiable accounts. No matter, there were bound to be a few in the bunch. He moved on to the next table. Local histories. Specs loved a good paranormal history, though he felt no one had taken on the task of creating a comprehensive catalogue of phenomena in a true, collective history. This was just another of many anthology books. No forward in which the author tried to unify his theories. No annotations. Specs tried to engage the man in a conversation about anomalistic theory, only to find him woefully uninformed.

Tucker occupied himself by turning his shoelace into a game of cat’s cradle for the first thirty minutes. He finally lost his patience at the third author. Martin K. Filmore purported evidence for the haunting of a suburban family in Oregon. Specs tried to respectfully ask for a summary of his verifiable proof, but Tucker could already see the photo on the cover was edited. He struggled to keep his mouth shut while they talked. Specs always asked questions from the assumption that the person was telling the truth, while Tucker always began with the premise that they were lying.

“The primary witness, the boy Matthew, reported poltergeist activity around the home, most frequently in his bedroom, where we found the writing on the wall.” Mr. Filmore began. He had a certain smugness about him, as if he knew he had to defend himself right from the start and needed to compensate. Tucker recognized it. Specs used to be the same way. “The writings were created by discarnate entities using pencils left lying in the boy’s room.”

“What did it look like while they were writing?” Specs asked, clearly still fascinated by the supposedly true story.

“Ah, well they were only recorded after the fact. No one saw them being done.”

“Did you have anyone analyze the handwriting? To identify multiple entities?”

“I analyzed it myself. There were problems here and there, but, here, I’ll show you-“ He pulled one of his books off the table a flipped to the appendix of photographs. Tucker audibly scoffed. Specs elbowed him in the ribs. Mr. Filmore held open the page and tapped a photo of a bedroom wall covered in words, signatures of the deceased, he insisted. “Here we have the examples of direct writing by some entity or entities.”

Specs nudged his glasses down and squinted over them. Any differences in handwriting were too blurry to make out. “Do you have any examples of the kid’s handwriting?”

“No, but I do go into greater detail about it in the book, if you’re interested in a copy. Of course it’s one of many examples, and while I think it affirms the other evidence, I don’t insist there isn’t another explanation.”

“Of course you do.” Tucker finally broke in. “You wrote an entire book insisting it.”

“Tucker-“

Tucker took the book from the author’s hands and held open the page. “Unnaturally even pressure… occasional breaks in consistency, blunt beginning and end to every letter. Forgery 101. I guess you helped this kid get the attention he wanted.”

“Well I-“

“I apologize.” Specs said, wrapping his fingers around Tucker’s arm to lead him away. “He doesn’t get out much.”

Specs escorted Tucker away from the table a few steps before he let go and started walking ahead of him. “Why did you do that?”

“Because he was lying.”

“There’s a rude way of saying things and a not rude way of saying things.”

“There’s no polite way to call someone a liar.” Tucker followed along behind him, failing to weave between people as easily as his smaller counterpart.

“People deserve the benefit of the doubt. Our job requires that we listen and understand first. You can’t just go categorizing everything as, god, as a personality disorder.”

“Oh. So we’re talking about your daddy issues again.” Tucker felt the words leave his mouth before his good sense could catch up with him. Specs stopped in the middle of the aisle and turned around.

“Excuse me?”

Tucker felt time move a little more slowly in the moments where he needed to decide whether to back off or double down. The devil on his shoulder always told him to stick to his guns. The angel, regardless of the decision at hand, always recommended shutting up. It was good catch-all advice for most of his problems. Here he found himself at a threshold moment of maturity, where for once the thought occurred to him that keeping the peace might be more important than being right. Maybe. The ‘nah’ began to form, but he pushed through it.

“That was kind of shitty.” He admitted. Saying it didn’t come with a rush of relief so much as it did a knife to his ego, but intellectually he acknowledged he had made the right choice. A new year’s resolution two years in the making was finally gaining some traction. Specs paused for a moment, unsure of how to respond to this unusual reaction. Not that he wasn’t pleasantly surprised.

“Yeah. Well. It was.” He looked around for a second. “Are you hungry?”

They settled on pulled pork sandwiches from a food truck outside, where they sat on the curb for lack of better preparation by the conference organizers. Specs got his deep, ideological dialogue, not with the great minds of his generation, but with the ever familiar giant with barbecue sauce in his mustache- arguably one of the lesser minds, but Specs’ sounding board nonetheless.

“Every time a book like that gets published, our industry loses respect.” Tucker said. He and Specs continued their discussion far more civilly outside.

“And people who have actual problems are seen as less credible.”

“And the only people keeping it in check are people who think it’s all bullshit in the first place.” Tucker said as his licked the sauce off his fingers.

“I’ve been trying to address it for years with Spectral Sightings. I feel like I’ve barely made a difference.” Specs said. Tucker sighed. It was that same old story, every time. Specs didn’t think he was doing enough unless he’d already solved all the world’s problems in one stroke of the pen. And sure, some of his articles were a little too pedantic, a little too niche for anyone to really appreciate. He wrote what he wanted to see, not what audiences were looking for. But he’d produced some of the best material discounting the fakes while still insisting on the legitimacy of paranormal phenomena itself. Tucker knew that it wouldn’t mean anything until they could prove what they had seen, though. They needed a story with undeniable, visual proof, backed up by Specs’ undoubtedly immaculate firsthand account. They needed a clear shot; one big case. Without it they looked like every other charlatan with a camera. “Maybe it’s not working, Tucker. Maybe we’re just a pair of Martin K. Filmores.”

“Do you, or do you not have a scar right here-“ Tucker poked Specs in the temple. “From when a demon jacked you up with a monkey wrench?”

“Well yeah.”

“And you’ve been doing this for like, ten years.”

“But it hasn’t-“

“Shut up Kowalski, I’m giving you a pep talk.”

Specs still wanted to find something to disagree on. “Eleven years.”

“Whatever. Anyway, we have Elise now, and she’s like, a demon magnet. We’re bound to find something soon. And when we do, you’ll be able to help a ton of people, or whatever your obsession is.” It wasn’t the peppiest pep talk, peppered with insults, and Specs didn’t appreciate the idea of using Elise as bait, but he got the idea. Tucker was trying to sound like a normal person. It was kind of sweet. Specs was careful not to find it too sweet though.

“You know what we need?” Specs said.

“Hmm?”

“A skeptical inquiry society.”

“I’m pretty sure that exists. It’s called _the Skeptical Inquiry Society_.”

“Yeah, but none of those people have actually had a real, profound paranormal experience. They’re working to disprove all of it, including us. We need a group of people in the paranormal field who hold the community accountable. What would we call it?”

“The Specstical Inquiry Society.”

“Ha-ha.” Specs responded drolly. “No, something more formal. How about the Paranormal Organization for Operational Purity?”

“P… Oh yeah. You might want to rethink that.”

“Psychic and Paranormal Research Society.” Specs was like a random buzzword generator.

"I don't like it." Of course Tucker didn't like it. He didn't like any of Specs suggestions by merit of the fact that Specs had suggested them. "Let's put it to a vote."

"There's two of us."

"Then vote for me." Tucker said with a grin.

"This isn't a democracy. This is my brainchild."

"I won't join PPRS." Tucker pronounced it 'purse.'

"I've got it. Hunter, ninja, bear."

"That's a terrible name."

"No, that's not- it's like rock, paper, scissors, only with, you know."

"Is this one of those weird games you came up with when you played at recess by yourself?" Tucker asked. Specs glared at him over his glasses. He would argue the point if weren't true. Tucker's opinion didn't matter - he had a perfectly rich and fulfilling childhood with his own imagination, thank you very much. Specs took a minute to explain the ever so intricate rules and associated positions of the game. Tucker argued him at every point as to why the logic of the hunter, ninja, bear hierarchy didn't work, even to the point of bringing up the pounds per square inch bite power of a human versus a bear, all while still silently judging the convention goers around him as if they were they strange ones. Eventually they settled on the seemingly arbitrary rules and agreed to a best of three. Specs was relieved when "Specstical Inquiry" lost two to one. It would be a mistake to think Tucker had been joking when he suggested it.

Specs was reinvigorated by the idea of extending another branch of Spectral Sightings. It would probably take time to build up a reputation, but by his most optimistic approximation, they would have a thriving community group in no time. He could already see the details of running such a group forming in front of his eyes, like a binder making, chart drawing rain man. That was the way it always was though. Come up with idea, plan it out, execute. No hesitation. If he wanted to do something, he did it. He had never been in the habit of considering himself brave, but committed- yes, he was very committed to what he believed in, and he would do anything to follow through on it.

He looked up at Tucker, sitting there pretending to be interested in anything but what he had to say. Tucker, who would tease him for his ideas, but be the one helping him see them through anyway. Specs tried to look away. A feeling caught in his throat. That one dangerous little idea. _Don’t you dare_ . Because if he really wanted it, he would follow through. If he decided on a course of action, he would commit to it. Specs had walked the line so carefully until now, but when Tucker looked back at him and winked because he didn’t realize what was going through his head, Specs came dangerously close to falling in love. Oh god, he was _the one_ \- that barbecue stained, conceited, miserable cynic. The one who came along with him just because he knew he wanted to go. The one who apologized when he said something hurtful. The one who had already become more of a man than he was when they first met. If Specs wanted it, he would need to be very brave indeed.

“I guess we should go back inside.” He said, still dazed by cupid’s bow. Tucker shrugged.

“Nah.”


	18. Don't Look Any Further

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs contemplates the life choices that brought him face to face with his demons. Literal demons.

**September 2007**

 

Specs knew what he wanted to do from the first time he cracked a book on paranormal investigation. From that day, he worked tirelessly, bravely, at times naively, toward his goal. The scorn of others did not deter him. Even when poltergeists escalated from gentle shoves to full blown wrench to the face violence, he didn't waver. So it was significant that now, as he lay on the floor with ears ringing, lights flashing, and cartoon birds circling his head, he finally began to question the life choices that had led him to this moment.

 

In true life before the eyes fashion, he started at the beginning with a Freudian analysis. Born to Raymond and Angeline Kowalski at St. Vincent's weighing in at a disappointing five pounds nine ounces. Proceeded to grow beneath the 20th percentile, ensuring he would never be the linebacker his father envisioned. Overprotective parents resulted in bizarre forms of youthful rebellion, like sneaking off to the library, and gasp, joining the chess club against their wishes. Puberty hit, boys looked pretty good, fast forward to a new hobby to channel his hormone riddled energy into: paranormal investigation. Still short though. Years of loneliness, mediocrity, and heartbreak were stumbled through by the power of one meaningful conviction to help people until, enter his knight in polyester armor.

 

That thought snapped Specs back to reality just briefly enough to wonder where Tucker was. He opened his eyes only to see a strobe effect. Screaming registered somewhere just behind him. He could hear that old imperative beating his head, saying 'help them,' but his body refused. Help them. That was exactly why he was here.

 

It started out as a calm enough weekend. For the first time in what felt like months they had a clear schedule. Elise made plans for pancake breakfast on Saturday morning and a day of sightseeing on the north coast. They were enjoying the lazy morning playing Scrabble, letting the dishes wait until later, when the phone call came in.

 

"I'll get it." Elise said before tilting her tiles further away from Tucker's view. "I know you cheat."

 

"You let him use Klingon words, but I'm the cheater?"

 

"House rules. Klingon is one of the accepted languages at this table." Specs said with a smug little smile.

 

"Except you're the only one who speaks it. Possibly ever, without irony."

 

Elise held up a finger, shushing them with a grin, before she wrapped herself in the corded phone and turned away. Tucker and Specs were left glaring across the table. They had mostly returned to their preferred brand of foreplay: bickering and protracted staring contests. Specs remained unsure about what to do with him. He kept his emotions in great discipline, never letting his mind wander too far without remembering the reality of what it could mean, but there were little slip ups here and there. He found himself catching his breath when Tucker would touch him. Sinful thoughts had always been a challenge with them cohabitating, but now he was experiencing primal instincts of another kind, like the urge to nest and nurture and protect, and these were far more alien to him than anything that had come before. He'd say he wanted to settle down together if they hadn't already done that.

 

Specs decided he needed to take a measured, scientific approach to the whole thing. The hypothesis: they could be more than friends. The method: perform small experiments to test whether Tucker was really even interested. Not exactly romantic, but his insecurities had already found ways to convince him he had misread the whole situation. Going for it would be an extreme leap of faith. He had to be sure there was mutual interest, or he stood to embarrass himself at best, or lose his friend, family, and house to wind up living in a box  turning tricks for pennies a day downtown…at absolute worst.

 

The first step would be to check that Tucker was even interested. This would mean flirting. Not one of his strengths. Specs’ previous romantic encounters were usually initiated by the other party. He never stopped being surprised when people hit on him, and those were just the ones who took the direct approach. Others had probably dropped subtle hints that never even registered. Only once had he made the first move himself. That had been the first and the last time. Apparently Jordan in eleventh grade really did just want to beat him up. That was the day Specs gave up believing he could read signals.

 

Of course, this was Tucker. Specs knew him better than anyone. Not to mention Tucker wasn’t exactly a complex human being. Mostly a pattern of eat, sleep, and argue, with a dash of sensitive family man and mysterious past. The trick would be extending a line just far enough to check if Tucker would respond to his flirtations, while not extending it to the point that he led him on. This manifested in Specs trying to smile more often and sit closer to Tucker. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for in response, other than to verify that Tucker wasn’t completely repulsed by it. It felt bit surreal, hitting on his best friend, but they were so stuck in their habits that even at his most self-conscious he couldn't help but feel comfortable. Tucker failed to interpret all of this as anything more than Specs being even stranger than usual.

 

"You can tease all you want," Specs said as he began spelling out the word 'plaid.' "but I'm not the one with a collection of Precious Moments figurines."

 

"Oh, you want to play that game? Because I'm not the only one with a collection. In fact, I seem to remember walking in on you talking to your Captain Picard action figure one time."

 

"I was thinking out loud and happened to be holding that action figure."

 

"Yeah ok. You literally ask him for advice." Tucker said. He folded up a pancake and swallowed it whole. Specs rolled his eyes, pretending to be offended while he cooked up an explanation.

 

"Well... he would be a wise person to to talk to. It's a problem solving exercise."

 

"WWPD?"

 

"In effect." Specs replied. Tucker shook his head. They both failed to notice that Elise's voice had dropped out of range. She picked up the phone and walked her way out of the kitchen and down the hall. Specs and Tucker continued their ongoing nerd measuring contest until she came back.  Taking a minute to compose herself, she hung the phone back up on the wall and sat back down with them.

 

"Well it looks like we'll have to postpone our road trip. We have a job." She said. At the time, Specs thought she looked upset because of the change in plans. At the time, he assumed the job would be straightforward. Never had he been so wrong. Elise sent them out to do the usual sweep. She gave them no reason to think it would even be complicated, let alone, well, whatever this shit was. Of course, Elise was always careful not to indicate how she felt about a case before it started. There was a baseline understanding between them that any case could be dangerous, and that she expected them to go in scrutinizing every detail without bias. It was part of the job. Sometimes that meant withholding her intuitions from them until after preliminary testing.

 

Specs could feel the pressure rushing out of his ears, clearing his head enough to isolate the sound of Elise's voice. The initial shock over the fact that he had just been airborne was beginning to wear off. Pain set in, mostly down his right shoulder and his back, with a nice stinging ache on the side of his face to top it off. He reminded himself that he asked for this. Just that afternoon he had been begging to go back in, even after Josh Lambert kicked them out. Even after Elise established that they were dealing with something very dangerous. He wanted to help them.

 

"We're not just going to leave, right?" He said the moment Josh swept them out the front door. He stood on the stoop resolutely, expecting Elise and Tucker to agree, but both continued on like they hadn't heard him. Specs saw the picture; he saw the look in Elise’s eye that always meant there would be hell; and he saw Tucker lose his composure over something he still hadn’t brought himself to describe. Elise didn’t explain the Further to people lightly. A lost soul, of a child no less, floating around at the mercy of any evil spirit that could lay him to claw or talon- that was a serious job, the very definition of the kind of people they needed to help. Yet Tucker and Elise were already halfway down the drive. "I mean, we have to come back and help them eventually...guys?"

 

Elise stopped and shook her head. "We don't impose our help on anyone who doesn't want it."

 

“But…” Specs could still hear Renai begging her husband to believe her from behind the door. He didn’t even mind the insults about their business, or the insinuation that they were cons –he had developed thick skin out of necessity by this point- but seeing a mother so wholly concerned for her son set something off in him. That was the way it should be. That kind of love needed to be defended. He would do anything he could to help her. “But they need you.”

 

Elise returned to his side and put an arm around him, leading Specs along to the van. “I know it’s difficult, sometimes, to feel like you’re turning your back on someone. But the situation is more complicated than you think. You have to let people come to their own understanding in their own time.”

 

Specs wanted to believe Elise knew best. She seemed even more serenely focused about the case than usual, which was both comforting and concerning. When the Lamberts called them again that night, she answered the phone like she expected it to ring, and when she reviewed their plan with Specs and Tucker on the ride there, her voice had lost its normal warmth and glimmer. That distance left Specs feeling uneasy, but also set a serious tone that helped him and Tucker focus. Elise led them solemnly into battle with whatever forces she had sensed that night. She made no illusions about the danger, while still telling them only what they needed to know.

 

“Dalton is like a conduit of paranormal energy-“ She said from the passenger seat of the van. Tucker drove, while Specs relegated himself to the milk crate in the back. “He is powerful, unstable, and extremely vulnerable. Protecting his body is our number one priority, understood?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes ma’am.”

 

“Steven I want your complete attention when I am in the Further.” She said. He nodded nervously. “You will hear me say many things in many different voices as I pass by the dead. Don’t try to stop me, or speak of your own accord until after I return, no matter what you hear me saying. You know your job. Relay information to the Lamberts without hesitation. I’m counting on you to be my voice to them. And Tucker… no matter what happens, don’t stop recording.”

 

“You can count on that.” Tucker said with pride. Specs didn’t understand how he could be so calm. Maybe he didn’t recognize how somber Elise had turned. Maybe he possessed the attention span of a gnat, as Specs often suspected, and he had already forgotten whatever turned him sheet white that morning. Or maybe these were the continuing adventures of Mr. Tough Guy and the Not Scared of Nothin’ Attitude. What Specs failed to realize was that they both needed to bring their A game, and this was Tucker’s way of psyching himself up to it.

 

As they were driving one more anomaly occurred to put Specs on edge. Coming off the highway they hit a bump, and suddenly the tape player in the van kicked on. The van speakers had never worked and the tape player had some old tape jammed into it since the day Tucker brought it home. He never even bothered trying to get it out. “Who listens to tapes?” He always asked. A bump in the road kicking on some loose wiring wasn’t unheard of, but the song that played left Tucker and Specs with an eerie case of deja vu: “Be my Baby” by the Ronnettes. Tucker tapped the eject button a few times, then escalated to hitting the tape deck, but nothing stopped it until they turned off the car.

 

“Hate this song. It still gives me the creeps.” He grumbled. Specs didn’t know how to take the coincidence. Unsettling occurrences seemed to be the name of the game tonight.

 

Still, he put on his brave face for the Lamberts when they arrived and began setting up. A relaxed appearance was an important part of putting them at ease, and the more at ease they were, the better Specs could feel that he was protecting them. Specs relied on formality in the face of danger. There were checklists and protocols to temper his more excitable side, the side that bristled with energy, both from fear and excitement, just beneath his professional demeanor. Tucker set up their equipment in silence. Specs rolled out the table. Finally they unleashed the piece de resistance: the mask. They had been using it for months now as what Tucker called an “atmospheric isolation device” - in other words, as a means of helping Elise shut out the living world to better connect with that of the dead. It had the special trait of being the first piece of equipment Specs and Tucker engineered together, by merit of the fact that he selected the headphones he would wear to listen to Elise. Specs offered a comforting squeeze of the hand when Tucker placed the headphones over his ears. They had been so severely focused on the job until that point; he felt the need to give some silent reassurance that he was very much present, and very much concerned for Tucker’s wellbeing. A part of him, presently muffled beneath waves of worry and fear and duty, spiked with excitement when Tucker gave him a squeeze on the shoulder in return.

 

All of which brought him up to the present moment. Why was he here? Why had he just been tossed like a human ragdoll? Why did he feel like ten chiropractors wouldn’t be able to put him back together again? Technically, because a nine year old with superhuman strength just slapped him to hell and back, which was only the second worse feeling to being knocked out with a wrench. Less technically, a string of choices he wouldn’t go back and change even if he were given the chance had brought him here. He would take that hit and a hundred more to help innocent people. Now if only he could stand up.

 

“Tucker, turn on the lights.” Elise’s voice rang in Specs’ head like a homing beacon guiding him past the final foggy planes of near-unconsciousness and back into reality. The light snapped on. Specs squinted until Tucker’s head eclipsed the light. He looked to be in one piece. That being said, he also looked like a giant blur, which caused Specs to realize his glasses had snapped in two across the bridge again. It was funny, the minor details that his consciousness seemed to want to focus on. Tucker reached down and nudged him, presumably to check if he was alive.

 

“You ok?” He asked. Specs grimaced at his touch. Everything sucked.

 

“Yeah.” He whined, swatting him away. “Don’t stop recording.”

 

All business, all the time. Tucker pointed the camera back toward Elise and Specs followed his eye line. He felt himself exhale for the first time in what seemed like the whole evening. Elise was ok. Everyone was ok- or as ok as they were going to be right now.

 

Specs desperately wanted to be the person who would sit them down and tell them everything would be fine, but paranormal investigation of this caliber required a tag team effort, and right now he needed to tag out. He declined a fireman's carry from Tucker to the kitchen, instead insisting on getting there by his own power, which involved a lot of bumping into things along the way. Elise looked tired but remained focused. She instructed Tucker to review the footage immediately.

 

“And you.” She said to Specs, her demeanor softening for the first time all night. “You need to stop getting yourself hurt.”

  
Elise gave a rueful smile. Specs still couldn’t place what was going on in her head, and at this point he was too scrambled to try, but he accepted the gesture. They all knew they cared about each other. It didn’t need to be said, and it couldn’t be said right now, one, because they had a job to do, and two, because saying it would imply they were worried they wouldn’t get another chance to. Whether they feared jinxing themselves or feared that was precisely the case, they all shared an unspoken agreement not to bring it up. Specs knew what the job meant. Indeed, they all knew: they were civil servants of a most unusual kind, givers who put the needs of others first and their own needs -their own relationships- last, even if it wasn’t understood or appreciated; even if it meant never getting to say goodbye. They all chose this life and gave each other the strength to stay with it. That was what led him to this moment, and that was the strength he would need to make it through the rest of the night. This was only the intermission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I had the flu. I hope it makes up for in quality what it lacks in quantity. Also, please enjoy the title pun.


	19. Neither One of Us

**September 2007**

 

Transcript of Steven Allen Kowalski Interview

By Michael Sendal and Gail Walter

 

Sendal: Test, test. Mr. Kowalski I’ve turned on the tape recorder, okay?

Kowalski: Okay.

Sendal: Okay.

Walter: Date is September 21, 2007, and the time is 0545. We are in room four of the Pasadena Police Department building with Steven Kowalski. I am identifying myself as Gail Walter. I’m here with detective Michael Sendal.

Sendal: Okay. Thanks, Gail. Let's get started. Steven, are you under the influence of any drugs or medication now?

Kowalski: No.

Sendal: You are not on medication?

Kowalski: Just blood pressure medication. It shouldn't, doesn't have any kind of-

Sendal: Are you under the influence in any way at present?

Kowalski: No.

Sendal: Okay. With me is Steven Kowalski, and at this time I’m getting to fill out a rights for- it’s Steven Allen Kowalski?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: Spell your last name please.

Kowalski: K-O-W-A-L-S-K-I

Sendal: And your date of birth?

Kowalski: September 9, 1981.

Sendal: Address where you reside?

Kowalski: 429 Geneva Street, Glendale California.

Sendal: Highest level of education?

Kowalski: High school. I’m still a student.

Sendal: Right. Thank you. Okay, Steven, here is a rights form. Anything we talk about with someone, we inform them of their rights, and that’s all this is, okay?

Kowalski: Okay.

Sendal: I’m informing you that I am Detective Michael Sendal, and we are conducting an investigation of the offense of capital murder, which in this case is of Elise Rainier. The assault we will question you about was committed on or around September 20, 2007. Before we ask you any questions you must understand your legal rights, therefore I warn you and advise you have the right to remain silent. Do you understand that?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: I need you to put your initials here. Anything you say can be used against you in court, do you understand that?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: You have the right to a lawyer or advice before we ask you any questions and to have him or her with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer one will be appointed to you before any questioning if you wish, and at no cost to you, do you understand?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: Should you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present you still have the right to stop answering at any time, do you understand?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: Initial here. Okay. This bottom portion here is a waiver of rights. Basically, it allows us to talk to you. This says I have read this statement of my rights and understand what my rights are. I am willing to make a statement and answer questions. This says that you do not want a lawyer at this time. I understand and know what I’m doing. No promises or threats have been made to me, no pressure or force has been used against me, is that true?

Kowalski: Yeah. I mean yes.

Sendal: I need your signature here, and I will witness it. Okay. Steven, can you please clarify for the purpose of this recording your relationship to the deceased?

Kowalski: She was my friend.

Sendal: Did you also participate in a business with her?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: A paranormal investigation business?

Kowalski: Yes. Um, yes she was a medium.

Sendal: I see. And how long had you known Mrs. Rainier?

Kowalski: Year and a half. Maybe a bit more.

Sendal: Ok, I have to ask, son. To start I have to ask you, did you kill Elise Rainier?

Kowalski: No. I did not.

Sendal: Did you assault her in any manner that caused her death?

Kowalski: No. Oh god. [extended pause]

Sendal: I’m sorry, I have to ask. I need to talk to you about your recollection of the events of September 20, okay?

Kowalski: Yeah.

Sendal: I need to know what you know, alright? It will help us identify who killed Mrs. Rainier. If I- if you feel like I’m starting to prompt you or put words in your mouth, please tell me. Same goes for Ms. Walter. Are we all clear on that?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: It’s very important. Let’s get some background to help, uh, leading up to the events of September 20, okay? You say you knew the deceased almost a year and a half. In that time you worked together. Explain what kind of work you did, please.

Kowalski: We um, we answer calls from residents reporting, um, paranormal phenomena. Sightings, poltergeists, possession, and um, sometimes we did readings or sit ins, which is like a séance, I guess you’d say.

Sendal: And Mrs. Rainier purported to have psychic abilities that aided her in these activities.

Kowalski: She does.

Sendal: At the scene was a Mr. Tucker Ockley, who you report also worked with you and the deceased.

Kowalski: Yeah.

Sendal: How long have you known Mr. Ockley?

Kowalski: Three years.

Sendal: And you live together, is that correct?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: What is your relationship with him?

Kowalski: He’s my friend.

Sendal: And do you or Mr. Ockley purport any psychic abilities similar to those of Mrs. Rainier’s?

Kowalski: No.

Sendal: Ok. Thank you. I’m sorry. We can take a small break. We’ll come back to him.

Walter: Do you need water?

Kowalski: No thank you. No.

Sendal: If you think we can continue now. [nonverbal agreement] Okay. Mrs. Rainier was found dead in the home of Josh Lambert and Renai Lambert at 567 Post Avenue. Present at the scene during the suspected time of her assault was yourself, Mr. Ockley, Mrs. And Mr. Lambert, a Lorraine Lambert, and the boy uh, Dalton Lambert. Can you confirm that for me?

Kowalski: That’s correct.

Sendal: Was there anyone else present at the home at the time of Mrs. Rainier’s death?

Kowalski: Well. No. No other people.

Sendal: You’re referring to something present other than people.

Kowalski: I know it sounds crazy. We saw it. We all did.

Sendal: We’ll come back to that. Right now I want to establish the purpose of your visit to the Lamberts. These people, this family, they were clients of yours? Of your business, of Mrs. Rainiers?

Kowalski: Yes. They called us Saturday morning. The wife, um, Renai thought [extended pause].

Sendal: Tell us in your own words. You tell us what you saw. We want to hear it.

Kowalski: They believed they were being haunted. Specifically, um, the older boy, Dalton. They believed something was attacking him and they asked for our help. We were there in the evening on Saturday, um, the 19th, and then we went back yesterday. Sunday. First in the morning for maybe an hour. Then last night, until-

Sendal: Understood. And did you witness anything that could be said to be attacking their child?

Kowalski: A few things.

Sendal: Can you please be more specific?

Kowalski: We saw maybe two, three dozen different forms in the house. Many of them were aggressive. Especially toward Dalton.

Sendal: And you purport these people were ghosts?

Kowalski: Yeah.

Sendal: The injuries you incurred, bruises on your right side and back, a black eye on the left side of the face. Did these occur on September 20?

Kowalski: They did. Last night. Yeah.

Sendal: And who gave them to you?

Kowalski: A spirit in possession of Dalton’s body.

Sendal: Can you describe how it happened?

Kowalski: We were trying to, um, sorry. We were trying to draw Dalton back but something else took over his body. You’ll see it in that video we um, Tucker and I, gave you. It hit me, using Dalton’s body, and I [extended pause] I was thrown into the wall, and then fell onto a dresser before landing on my back. And that was, that was the spirit.

Sendal: Okay. We need that on record. Okay, I’m going to ask you where you were at the time of Mrs. Rainier’s death.

Kowalski: I was outside. We were, Tucker and I.

Sendal: And Mrs. Rainier was inside?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: What were you and Mr. Ockley doing?

Kowalski: [extended pause] Sorry. Sorry, I just.

Sendal: Take your time. Please, tell me if at any point you need to stop. I understand. We just have to ask you these questions.

Kowalski: We were loading our equipment into the van. We were talking.

Sendal: Did you hear any noises coming from inside the Lambert’s home? Cries for help or screams?

Kowalski: We heard a scream. Just from Renai.

Sendal: And then what did you do?

Kowalski: I ran inside to see if she, if Renai was ok. And I went into the living room.

Sendal: What did you see in the living room?

Kowalski: Renai and Josh were standing in the living room. And Elise was sitting in a chair.

Sendal: And at that time did it appear to you that Elise Rainier was deceased?

Kowalski: I mean yeah. Yes. [extended pause]

Sendal: Please take your time.

Kowalski: Okay. Okay.

Sendal: Can we go on?

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: Was anyone else in the room when you walked in, that you could see?

Kowalski: No.

Sendal: And where was Mr. Ockley at this time?

Kowalski: He had been outside with me. And I went in, inside the house, first. And then he followed me in.

Sendal: And Mr. Ockley also saw the deceased and Mr. and Mrs. Lambert?

Kowalski: He saw them. And I told him what happened. I didn't let him see her. Elise, I mean.

Sendal: When you say you didn't let him see, you mean you restrained him from walking further into the room.

Kowalski: Yes.

Sendal: In your words, what happened next?

Kowalski: Uh. Sorry. It’s hard to remember. I don’t know what anyone said. We were trying to figure out what happened. And I took Tucker back outside. Just outside the door. That’s when he called you. He called 911.

Sendal: I know these questions are difficult. We want to find out what happened. I have to ask you some questions about this, um, about how you felt, I need on record. Were you surprised to find Mrs. Rainier dead?

Kowalski: Yeah.

Sendal: You weren’t aware of anyone who would want to kill her?

Kowalski: No. No one wanted to hurt her. Not a person.

Sendal: She didn’t have any enemies, and I’ll clarify so you don’t have to: she didn’t have any living enemies that you were aware of?

Kowalski: No. She- she was not- she wasn’t the kind of person who makes enemies.

Sendal: You would describe her as someone who doesn’t make enemies. Can you explain what that means?

Kowalski: I mean. She was very kind. She helped people all the time. The only people she ever even saw were, were people she was helping. And Tucker and I.

Sendal: Can you describe your relationship with her a little more for me? You were friends.

Kowalski: Yeah. We, Tucker and I, we spent a lot of time with her. Um. I don’t know. We saw each other throughout the week, usually for meals, or when we were working. And um, we went on vacations together. The three of us. Kind of a family. [pause]

Sendal: I understand this is distressing. We don’t have much more, I promise. I need you to describe the relationship between Mr. Ockley and the deceased. Would you say it was similar to yours?

Kowalski: Yes. Tucker would never. He didn’t. He loved her very much.

Sendal: I need to ask you some questions, I know they’re not easy. Tell me if you need a break.

Kowalski: Okay.

Sendal: On the record, you had no reason to ever want to bring harm to Mrs. Rainier?

Kowalski: I did not.

Sendal: Mr. Ockley had no reason to ever want to harm the victim?

Kowalski: No. He didn’t.

Sendal: Did Mr. Lambert have any reason to want to harm the victim?

Kowalski: I didn’t know him very well. No. I don’t think so.

Sendal: Did he appear in any way aggressive to you during your time at the Lambert’s house?

Kowalski: No. No, just, just worried about his son.

Sendal: Do you think concern for his son could have made Mr. Lambert act drastically in some way?

Kowalski: I don’t know what you mean.

Sendal: I apologize. Do you think Mr. Lambert could have hurt Mrs. Rainier in some way, if he thought it would protect his son?

Kowalski: Dalton was already safe. He was already okay. Everything had ended. Elise was protecting Dalton, so I don’t see-

Sendal: That’s fine. That’s fine. To your knowledge, was Mr. Lambert in the house when you were outside?

Kowalski: I thought he was.

Sendal: And I have you on record saying he was in the room when you discovered the deceased.

Kowalski: Yes. They both were. I’m not saying I think he did anything. I don’t think he did. I want to, I want to make it clear that I don’t think Josh Lambert killed Elise.

Sendal: Thank you. Now, please, Steven, can you tell me: do you know who killed Elise Rainier?

Kowalski: I don’t.

Sendal: Any further questions, Gail?

Walter: I have no further questions.

Sendal: I don’t either. Before I end the tape, is there anything you want to say that you think is important to make it into the record?

Kowalski: Yes. I want to say I think something, a spirit, I think something paranormal killed her. I don’t believe a living human killed Elise.

Sendal: All right. We have that on record. You have the right, Mr. Kowalski, to add anything at a future date. I’m finished. Gail?

Walter: I’m done too. The time is 0627 and the tape is being turned off.

 

 

Transcript of Tucker Martin Ockley Interview

By Michael Sendal and Gail Walter

 

Sendal: We're recording. Gail?

Walter: Date is September 21, time 0713. Recording from room four of Pasadena Police Department. I am Officer Gail Walter here with detective Michael Sendal. This interview is with Tucker Martin Ockley. Is that correct?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: Thank you. Would you prefer we call you by your last or first name?

Ockley: I don't care.

Sendal: Okay. Are you under the influence of any drugs or medication at this time?

Ockley: I don't touch that shit.

Sendal: Are you under the influence in any way?

Ockley: No

Sendal: Understood. We're going to go over your rights now. Let it be established for the recording that we have collected Mr. Ockley's demographic information at a time prior to this recording. I'll read it out loud. Name, Tucker Martin Ockley. Date of birth August 23, 1980. Highest level of education, high school. We're now informing the above that the purpose of this interview is to investigate the offense of capital murder in the case of Mrs. Elise Rainier on September 20, 2007. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Understood?

Ockley: [extended pause] Yeah.

Sendal: You have the right to a lawyer at any time during questioning. Should you be unable to afford a lawyer one will be provided to you at no cost. You still have the right to stop answering questions and ask for a lawyer at any time. Initials there. Okay. And you're reading all of this here. Willingness to answer questions, you know what is being asked of you and are in no way impaired, and no force has been applied to you. Correct? Sign here. Good. Okay we're going to start by, um, we're going to confirm a few things. Okay?

Ockley: Sure.

Sendal: Your relationship to the deceased?

Ockley: Friends.

Sendal: And how long have you known the deceased?

Ockley: Stop calling her that.

Sendal: You understand, we need to refer to her that way for the investigation. I will continue to call her by name where it is appropriate, but I need you to be cooperative. We need to find out what happened. We want to find out what happened to your friend. How long had you known her?

Ockley: 17 months.

Sendal: And did you come to meet her through your work? You and Mr. Kowalski?

Ockley: Yep.

Sendal: Please explain what kind of work you and Mrs. Rainier did.

Ockley: We cleaned. Haunted houses, we went in, made sure they were haunted, got out whatever was there, or Elise would help people move on.

Sendal: People meaning living or dead people?

Ockley: Both.

Sendal: In the time that you worked together, would you say you and the, and Mrs. Rainier, would you say you became very close? You described her as your friend, not just your partner.

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: Did you spend a lot of time with her?

Ockley: [inaudible]

Sendal: Please speak up.

Ockley: Yeah. A lot of time.

Sendal: And in that time would you say everything about your relationship was positive?

Ockley: What?

Sendal: Your relationship. There was never any animosity?

Ockley: What kind of animosity could you have? Everyone liked her. She was nice to everyone. Not a mean bone in her body. She treated us good. Like we were hers.

Sendal: We meaning yourself and Mr. Kowalski?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: You would say she treated the two of you like sons?

Ockley: Yeah. Where is he?

Sendal: We just spoke with Mr. Kowalski.

Ockley: He didn't do anything.

Sendal: We aren't saying anyone did anything. We're trying to learn the facts right now. We have an assault by what appears to be a grown man, and three men at the scene. We need to talk about what you saw so we can find out what happened. We need your help. Understood? [nonverbal agreement] Okay. Now you and Mr. Kowalski are roommates, correct?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: How long have you known each other?

Ockley: Since 2004. Around this time. Why?

Sendal: Well, Gail and I, we need to establish exactly what your arrangement with Mrs. Rainier was. We want to understand how well you all know each other.

Ockley: I already told you who killed her.

Sendal: We're going to ask more questions about that, but would you like to make that statement now?

Ockley: Yeah. Josh Lambert went to get his son back. A bunch of stuff came back with him. Something came back with him and killed Elise.

Sendal: Something, meaning?

Ockley: Ghost, demon, one of the two. Something followed him back. I already told you.

Sendal: Well you can understand why we need to clear this up. Because it sounds like you all went through a lot last night, and we need to piece together what really happened.

Ockley: [inaudible]

Sendal: Well we need to get your story on record. Okay? We need your cooperation, for your friend.

Ockley: I'm not [inaudible]

Sendal: Take all the time you need. I understand this isn't easy. Okay? We want to let you go and let you mourn but we have to find out whatever you can tell us. I just want to ask you a couple questions about last night. Can you explain your affiliation with the Lamberts? How you came to be at their home September 20?

Ockley: They called us. Called Elise and asked for our help. Said the wife was seeing type 4, um, that’s like a standard aggressive visual and poltergeist combination. Specs and I went over there on Saturday night. Swept the joint. I confirmed paranormal activity, so we went back with Elise yesterday.

Sendal: At which point, and we’re just trying to get the timeline here, at which point you didn’t stay, correct?

Ockley: They kicked us out.

Sendal: And just to clarify for the record, Specs is the nickname of Mr. Steven Kowalski?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: And then you went back?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: Mr. Kowalski reported injuries from last night. Prior to the time of the murder. Can you tell us a little more about that?

Ockley: I gave you my camera. It’s on there.

Sendal: We’ll be reviewing that. Right now I’m asking what you saw.

Ockley: Barely anything. I just pointed the camera, but it was too bright to see anything. The kid hit him and he flew into the wall. I only saw him fall in front of me.

Sendal: The boy, Dalton, you say he’s the one who hit him?

Ockley: Well not really.

Sendal: Was Mr. Lambert in the room at this time?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: Is it possible, since you yourself say you couldn’t see very well, is it possible Mr. Lambert struck your friend?

Ockley: That’s stupid. He couldn’t backhand Specs six feet in the air even if it was him.

Sendal: But a nine year old boy could?

Pckley: I told you, it’s on the video.

Sendal: Okay. Okay. But I just want to establish some things about Mr. Lambert’s behavior last night. Okay?

Ockley: Sure.

Sendal: We’re learning Mr. Lambert was acquainted with the deceased since he was a child. That they’ve known each other for a long time. Is that true?

Ockley: I don’t know anything about that. Just what I overheard.

Sendal: And what was that?

Ockley: She helped him when he was a kid. He was being haunted and she hypnotized him to forget.

Sendal: Hypnotized him how?

Ockley: I was six years old at the time.

Sendal: Mr. Ockley we need your full cooperation here. We’re trying to help you.

Ockley: I already told you what happened. Something came back with Josh Lambert and killed Elise. I gave you my cameras. I gave you everything I have. So I don’t see the point.

Sendal: Can I ask you a few more basic questions, for the record, so we have your testimony? It will help us help your friend.

Ockley: You can’t help.

Sendal: Were you outside at the time of Mrs. Rainier’s death?

Ockley: Yes.

Sendal: Was Mr. Kowalski outside with you at the time of Mrs. Rainier’s death?

Ockley: Yes.

Sendal: Was Mr. Lambert inside the house at the time of Mrs. Rainier’s death?

Ockley: Yes.

Sendal: Do you have any reason to have wanted to bring harm to Mrs. Rainier?

Ockley: No.

Sendal: Did Mr. Kowalski have any reason?

Ockley: I think I need to stop now.

Sendal: Are you sure?

Ockley: Yeah.

Sendal: You know we’re just trying to find out what happened? We’re trying to help you here, okay? [extended pause] It’s difficult right now. I know. If you need to add anything to your testimony, please be advised you’re free to do so at any time. Is there anything else you want to say at this time, while we’re recording?

Ockley: No.

Sendal: Gail, is there anything you need to add?

Walter: No. I’ll go ahead and close out if you’re done.

Sendal: I’m all done.

Walter: The time is 0758 and I am turning off the tape now.

 


	20. Put Your Head on my Shoulder

**September 2007**

  


No matter what happens, life moves on, and there’s still shit that needs to be done. This motto had carried Tucker through many hard times starting at far too young an age. Mom is nursing another withdrawal, dad’s at work late again? Eleven year old Tucker still had to make sure Bethany got dinner. Mom drove off with more “friends”, dad’s at work late again? Fourteen year old Tucker still had to finish his homework. Mom’s dead, dad’s at work late again? Seventeen year old Tucker still had to drop his sister off at the babysitter’s before he talked to the police. There would always be time to worry about himself later. He had to take care of everyone else first.

 

So it was with great frustration, and a bit of confusion, that he watched Specs completely dismantle this sense of duty by being the one taking care of him. Specs negotiated the logistics of their release after a neighbor testified she had seen them outside the Lambert’s house at the time of the murder. Specs told him -no, ordered him- to wait while he assembled the pull-out couch and arranged it with every possible comfort so Tucker wouldn’t have to wade through the junk in his garage to go to bed. Specs put on old reruns of Zorro to give him something to numbly focus on. Specs curled up next to him on the pull-out and sat resolutely, not allowing himself so much as a single tear, while he waited for Tucker to fall asleep. It wasn’t fair. Tucker was supposed to be the strong one for him.

 

“You can stop now.” Tucker mumbled from the pile of pillows he had propped himself up on. His lips cracked and his throat felt dry. He hadn’t spoken in several hours. Nothing more than one gentle ‘are you ok?’ when he and Specs reunited after their interviews at the police station.

 

“Huh?” Specs responded like he was being pulled out of a haze.

 

They had barely looked at each other since they got home, not wanting to acknowledge that what happened was real, or for fear that any eye contact might make it harder to keep it all under control. But now Tucker rolled onto his side and said, “You can stop waiting for me to fall asleep. I’m not going to.”

 

Specs blinked rapidly, trying to keep his eyes dry before lowering them to look back at Tucker. He rarely saw Tucker without a glimmer of pride in his eyes and an oh so clever smirk just barely being concealed. Even at his most serious, Tucker was able to present a certain carefree detachment from the circumstances; a ‘nothing can hurt me’ sort of flippancy that masked whatever might be going on beneath the surface. So it made Specs slightly uncomfortable to see Tucker looking back up at him completely vulnerable. He looked like a child, like he was too tired and too hurt to even bother pretending otherwise. Specs had to look away again.

 

“I’m not. I’m fine. I’m just…” Specs was about to say he was thinking about the last thing Elise said to him, but the thought stuck in his throat. Just before Specs joined Tucker out at the van, after Dalton was settled in, when everyone was happy and safe, Elise took a minute to be alone with him. He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. She looked serious. She looked like she wanted to say something that she wouldn’t get a chance to say again.

 

“You take care of him.” Elise had said.

 

“Yeah, I’ll drive. Not going to have him falling asleep behind the wheel. Not after we survived all of that.” Specs said with a chuckle at Tucker’s expense. He was busy packing one of the cameras back into its foam-lined container. He had barely even looked up at her.

 

“I mean it. You know I count on you two to look after each other.” Specs assumed this was her usual sort of lecture about appreciating what they had. Normally he would listen to what she had to say, whether he heard it before or not, but in that moment he was too excited, too distracted, to really process what she had said. They had just collected evidence in every medium imaginable that proved the existence of paranormal activity. They had multiple sane, adult witnesses that would corroborate their story. He and Tucker had just cracked their dream case. Only one thing she said stuck with him. One final, cryptic message: “Whatever happens with the two of you, I just want you to remember, you’re not the one who made it an ultimatum.”

 

 _You’re not the one who made it an ultimatum._ It was like a riddle he couldn’t get out of his head. Who made what an ultimatum he didn’t know, but he sensed what it was about. He could fool Tucker, he could even fool himself, but he couldn’t fool a psychic medium. Elise probably knew he was tiptoeing around feelings for Tucker before he knew it himself. He had been too afraid to tell her though. Now he would never get the chance.

 

He felt another stab of grief. It had been coming in waves. Long periods of dull aching were occasionally pierced by the memory of her lifeless body, or the look on Tucker’s face, or the horrible questions the police had asked him only hours before. Focusing on Tucker was the only thing holding him together at the moment.

 

Tucker could see right through it though. Specs couldn’t beat him at his own game. Holding it in, acting tough, that was his bit, and he had been doing it for years. He just couldn’t do it right now. And neither should Specs.

 

“Come here.” Tucker said. He hoped to sound bossy, but it came out pleading. Specs didn’t know how he could be any more ‘here’ than he was sitting right next to Tucker. Tucker patted the bed next to him. All propriety could go to hell right now. He rarely wanted to talk, and he rarely wanted to be vulnerable, but he wanted it now, so Specs needed to lay next to him no matter how inappropriate it might be. “C’mon.”

 

Specs obeyed, but he still averted his eyes. He scooted down under the blanket and laid with his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

 

“It’s always like this.” Tucker began quietly.

 

“What?”

 

“People dying. Takes a while to sink in.”

 

Specs clenched his jaw. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes like he could somehow stop up the waterworks, but it didn’t help. He kept his arm over his face to hide it from Tucker. “How long does it take? How long did it take to sink in with your mom?”

 

“Still hasn’t.” Tucker said. He had the winning formula to avoiding grief. It all depended on distractions. Either never stop moving long enough to think about the problem, or sleep your way through it. A healthy dose of resentment helped too. Better to be angry than sad. That metric was beginning to catch up with him though. He had no resentment for Elise to make it easier, and with someone he actually trusted laying right next to him, he had no way to keep himself bottled up. Now instead of one death he had to deal with two.

 

“This sucks.” Specs said, and his voice broke for the first time. He shook his head like a dog trying to shake off after a bath. “What do we do?”

 

“Nothing. Nothing we can do.” Tucker replied. Specs groaned. He couldn’t imagine he would ever get past this stage. The numb shock had left him confused, barely able to think straight. They laid in silence for a minute. Tucker mindlessly plucked at a loose thread on Specs’ pillow, trying to replay the night before in his mind. Not the bad parts -the scary part in the beginning and the traumatizing part at the end- but the sweet spot right in the middle, when he had mountains of evidence on film. When he and Specs were envisioning the life they always wanted falling into place. When it seemed, for one fleeting moment, that Specs might want him.

 

It had been a brief encounter, cut short by a bloodcurdling scream, but those few seconds were like heaven. Tucker closed his eyes and let himself picture the scene. They finished loading up the van outside. Tucker had been teasing him about something or other. Specs still looked good, even though he looked like hell. He asked Tucker to see if he had a black eye, and then somehow they were standing closer together, and Specs let Tucker pull his glasses off his face for a better look, and Tucker held him under the chin while he turned his face toward the light. Tucker made a joke about how Specs would explain it to his parents, but Specs didn’t laugh. He had just looked at him. He had never looked at him like that before. Tucker realized he still had his hand on Specs’ face, and that Specs had reached up and laid a hand on his arm, and they were just about to get a little closer when the whole thing came crashing down.

 

Tucker opened his eyes. It was so hard to remember what happened. Maybe he had imagined the whole thing. Still, the circumstances being what they were, he just wanted the comfort of talking to Specs, of being close to him. Boyfriend, best friend, it really didn’t matter. He would take what he could get right now. He let his hand move from the pillow to Specs’ shoulder.

 

Specs flinched, then took a shuddering breath. “Sorry.”

 

“S’fine.” Tucker said. Specs turned his head and finally looked at Tucker, letting his warm, teary cheek rest on his hand. He sniffed.

 

“What do we do?”

 

“Just have to wait.” Tucker said. “We’re going to feel like shit and there’s nothing we can do. Get’s easier though.”

 

“I can’t… I can’t stop thinking, it seemed like she knew.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Specs hesitated. He couldn’t tell Tucker the last thing she said. Not yet. Not before he had even figured out what it meant for himself. “I don’t know. The way she was acting, something felt off, like she knew something was there. She would know. If she had told us, maybe we could-”

 

“Stop.” Tucker knew what years of what ifs and should haves felt like. He wasn’t about to pile some more on. “If she didn’t tell us it’s because she didn’t want to.”

Specs went pale, or paler than usual. He started to imagine Elise, alone, determined to face whatever had clamored up out of hell to find her. She always had this annoying habit of telling Specs he was brave, but hearing it from her, the bravest person he knew, made it even harder to believe. If what Tucker said was true, it was at least a small comfort to know Elise went out exactly as she intended to, and most likely for the sake of others. A very, very small comfort.

"Don't space out on me, Kowalski." Tucker said without the faintest hint of his usual cloying sarcasm. He had gone through this before, and while that wound was still more raw than he wanted to admit, it gave him that much more experience than what Specs had. Not that Specs had much experience. For someone so abundantly empathetic, he was pretty sheltered. This had to hit him especially hard. Not to mention he had actually seen her. He didn't even let Tucker see her. Tucker's eyes flickered as they scanned his face, taking advantage of their comfortable proximity to get one long, gentle look at him before he rolled onto his back again. He didn't think he could keep eye contact for the next thing he wanted to say. “You remember those old Super Nintendo commercials? 'Now you're playing with power'?”

 

“‘Super power’. Yeah.” Specs didn't know where he was going with this, but he'd listen to Tucker recite the Gettysburg Address right now if it helped him process.

 

“I used to watch cartoons just to see the commercials, not the other way around. I wanted one so much. I don't even think our tv had the input for it, but I mowed so many fucking lawns for that thing.” Tucker said. Specs almost asked why he didn't put it on his Christmas list when he realized how insensitive that would be. Yes, ask the guy who grew up in squalor why he didn't just ask daddy for the new toy. Sheltered indeed. “I had exactly 183.47 saved. Kept it hidden in a crayon box under my bed. I was so close.”

 

“You never got it?”

 

“She found it. She took my money. It got her two weeks. She took it and she went away for two weeks. That’s all it bought her. You’d think I hated her before that, the way she ignored us, but it wasn’t until she took my fucking Super Nintendo money that I finally gave up hoping she cared. I was eleven though. Eleven year olds are selfish assholes.” Tucker took a deep breath. He didn’t usually talk this much unless he was arguing. “I know what you want to hear: she was a perfect mother who baked pies and kissed us on the forehead every night and we just lost her too soon. But she was shit.”

 

“How did she-?”

 

“She usually ran off a couple weeks or months at a time. You know, it’s a lot pressure just to raise your own kids, you gotta go blow off steam sometimes. It was easier when she was gone. I didn’t like her around Beth. She usually came back though, and lied about it being the last time. One time she didn’t come back. Police just showed up and told me. They thought I was stupid, tried to act like it was some kind of surprise that she had a heart attack, like that’s not what happens when your treat your body like a garbage can. I’m still not sure if she did it on purpose. This doesn’t feel anything like that. Elise wasn’t like that.”

 

Specs opened his mouth to say something, his body remembering the old habit of talking to fix the problem, but his brain stalled. There was nothing he could say to make it better. Tucker always said he would tell Specs when he wanted to talk about his mom, and Specs always imagined it would lead to some kind of bro talk over beers where they would go on for hours, like they did when they talked about paranormal theory or genre defining films. Now that the moment had come he was speechless. Things he had taken for granted about Tucker certainly had more context: his evasion when the topic of mental health came up, the vehement disgust at anyone he deemed to be a bad parent, not to mention all those meticulous walls supported by a fragile code of inappropriate humor and an even more fragile ego.

 

Specs’ chest felt heavy with a new layer of grief, knowing how much Elise meant to Tucker. She meant that to both of them. They were both mourning the loss of a parent by proxy. Perhaps a better parent than either ever had.

 

Specs offered the only thing he could in a language he knew Tucker would understand. A man of few words and so much body, Tucker expressed himself best physically, be it from a particularly judgmental quirk of the eyebrow or a warm bear hug. So Specs reached down and laced his fingers with Tucker's, squeezing his hand to say everything Tucker already knew. Regardless of what their insecurities told them, they were both possessed by a steadfast faith that the other would always be there. They had their own family. They had each other.

 

Tucker squeezed his hand back, then let the tension out with one long sigh through his nose. A ten year burden lightened only enough to make room for new loss and a small bit of comfort. He couldn’t stand being serious this long.

 

"Remember what Elise used to say…?” Tucker finally broke the silence.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“The past can hurt, but the way I see it you can either run from it or learn from it.”

 

“Tucker, that’s from The Lion King.”

 

“Maybe that’s where Elise got it from.” Tucker said, looking back over at Specs. “Just trying to make you laugh again.”

 

“Well I’m not going to. Not yet.” Specs said, but he did crack a sad little smile, if only to thank Tucker for the effort. Gallows humor was about all they had now, and a speciality of Tucker’s.

 

They let the next hour pass in silence watching Zorro. Despite how he had insisted otherwise, Tucker, true to form, did finally fall asleep. Specs followed, but only for a while before a bad dream shook him back awake. Only it wasn’t just a dream. Something killed Elise. Someone. _Her_. The memory sliced through the haze of exhaustion and grief. Elise had called the spirit who wanted to kill her a ‘she’, a woman. He sat up, only briefly distracted by the fact that he and Tucker had just slept holding hands, then sprang out of bed and headed straight for his office.

 

Tucker found him several hours later sitting cross-legged in his swivel chair in the middle of the office surrounded by a sea of torn out notebook paper. He was still in his undershirt and dress pants, socks discarded somewhere by the wayside, hair in an absolute mess- his evil genius look. The chair spun gently, as if Specs had recently pushed off the desk with his foot. Tucker leaned in the doorframe and watched him until Specs finally looked up on his third rotation.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” Tucker asked.

 

“I’m-” Specs waited for the chair to spin back around to face Tucker, then put his feet down to stop it. “Are you familiar with the theory of encoding specificity?”

 

Oh, Elise’s death had cracked Specs’ already dubious sanity. Tucker went to go back to bed. Maybe if he fell asleep and woke up again Specs would go back to normal, like rebooting a computer.

 

“Tucker, wait, seriously I’m going somewhere with this.” Specs hopped up. “Endel Tulving. In the 1980’s he proposed a two-stage theory of memory retrieval: the encoding specificity principle.”

 

“O-kay…” Best to indulge the little guy. He always started at the furthest possible distance from the actual point and worked his way to the center.

 

“According to the theory, memory utilizes information both from the specific memory trace as well as the environment it’s retrieved in. Because of the focus on the retrieval environment, it takes into account context cues, like auditory and other sensory cues, or, um word associations work this way, you know? So recreation of the environment in which the memory is lost is a helpful tool in recalling the lost information. Or seemingly lost. It’s still in there I guess. So when you hear the ice cream truck and it reminds you of what chocolate ice cream tastes like, or you smell, I don’t know, the same cologne an ex used to wear and it brings back all the memories and feelings you had during that time, that’s, that’s a memory cue.”

 

“And?”

 

“You can stimulate memory recall by trying to recreate situations, or, at least, simulate meaningful connections to help retrieve memories.”

 

“And?”

 

“I don’t know.” Specs looked down at all the paper around him. “I’m trying to remember something but I don’t even know what it is I’m trying to remember.”

 

Tucker yawned. He had officially slept less than ever before in a 72 hour period, and, never being a man of remarkable patience even with sleep, he needed Specs to wind around to the point a little bit faster if this was going to mean anything to him. “Layman's, Kowalski. Please.”

 

“Elise. She knew who wanted to kill her. She said ‘she’ wanted to kill her. Well, I don’t know, I feel like there’s something there. There’s something left to this thing. The police aren’t going to be able to find anything. If I could just remember... And before you say it, I know. I know this isn’t going to change anything, and I know nothing will bring her back, and I know this seems like just an excuse to distract myself right now but… I think we have to figure out what happened.” Specs rambled. He knew he had a track record of trying to solve unsolvable problems with a pen and paper, but there was a strange itch, an intuition, that they needed to do something, and soon. He waited for Tucker’s inevitable dissent.

 

“Okay.”

 

“What?”

 

“Okay. Let’s do it.” Tucker said.

 

“Wait, really?” Specs asked. Tucker just yawned again and waved a dismissive hand. Truth be told, and for once in his life, he was feeling the same intuition. Specs had to know by now that where investigations stood, Tucker would be there to support him.

 

“But um, all this.” Tucker gestured to the frenzy of paper. “Isn’t going to be helpful.”

 

“Well I explained to you Tulving’s theory.”

  
“Yeah. You’re doing it wrong. Tulving said that memory recall is easiest when the conditions match those at the time of memory formation. So, that would be, I don’t know, Elise’s house? Word association games not necessary.” So he was familiar with the theory. Specs let his usual annoyance slide by. Maybe they were chasing rabbits to feel like they were _doing_ something about Elise’s death. Maybe they shared the  impulse to throw themselves into their work to push mourning off another day. Or maybe they were following Elise’s example, putting their duty before themselves for the sake of others. After all, life moved on, and there was still shit that needed to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's something sweet  
> And almost kind  
> But he was mean and he was coarse and unrefined  
> But now he's dear, and so unsure  
> I wonder why Specs didn't see it there before


	21. What You Don't Know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs and Tucker have one calm before the storm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter. Sorry for the wait. Chapters may be coming more sporadically now, as my health has been kind of poor. We're coming down the home stretch though.

Specs always smelled clean, like something sharp and mineral, usually from whatever shampoo he was using. It never did much to tame his hair, but whatever he used sure did smell good. It fit with everything else about him. Mostly put together, mostly in control, with a few minor exceptions. He dressed neat, but everything fit just a bit too big. He kept a close shave, but the one sideburn was ever so slightly longer than the other. He presented himself professionally, but only up to the point where he could contain his enthusiasm.

 

If Tucker checked now, he’d probably see a thin, dark line of charcoal beneath his fingernails. They were working hands a very different kind: paper cut, ink stained, nails bitten. To anyone else the nail biting might seem a bad habit, but Tucker worked with so little for so long, just seeing Specs put his fingers in his mouth could provide days of fantasy material. What he could do with his hands, with his mouth- he could turn a 6'2 man into a puddle if he only tried.

 

These were the sort of things Tucker thought about while listening to Specs talk. He loved him, sure, and he respected him more than he would ever let on, but sometimes Specs sounded like one of the adults in a Peanuts movie. It took the powers of self-control, patience, and decency combined just listen to him sometimes. Tucker decided to find his rambling charming, but he still couldn’t be bothered paying attention to the specifics.

 

“Tucker? Are you even listening to me?”

 

Tucker’s eyes widened out of the squint they usually settled into while pretending to listen. “Um, ye-up.”

 

“What was I talking about?” Specs folded his arms over his chest and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Tucker had a fourth grade teacher who used to do the same thing. Not that he wanted to draw comparisons between Specs and woman who wore long denim skirts.

 

“The… Further.”

 

“ _Specifically_ I was talking about quantum mechanics and our perception of time.” Right, the reason Tucker had stopped listening. “The Further is a place that exists beyond time, where events can replay in a loop like… film in a zoetrope.”

 

Tucker wondered if Specs ever knew what he was talking about. If he did, he might just be a genius, trapped in his own frustrating mind, unable to communicate his ideas. More likely, however, he just read a lot of Wikipedia articles and parroted them with only a vague understanding of their meaning- like most college students. Still, sometimes that boiling pot of loosely connected thoughts produced a good idea, and they had very little to work with right now.

 

Specs and Tucker sat in Elise’s reading room, led there by providence or the paranormal. There was little difference between the two in their world. After Specs insisted on food, showers, and fresh clothes, it was rather late before they got to her house. They were reminded all too sharply of her loss when they walked through the squeaky gate and up the stairs of that warm, welcoming porch. Everything was just as they had left it. The Scrabble game unfinished on the dining room table, dishes still unwashed in the sink. The reading room door creaking open had almost been a relief compared to staring missed memories in the face.

 

Tucker knew not to get his hopes up about anything. Perennial disappointment had a way of conditioning him. But he couldn’t help but feel a pang of a “maybe” when her reading room opened and ushered them down. Maybe Elise was still with them. Maybe she had something she wanted to show them. So despite their (mostly Specs’) reservations, they did what they did best and walked straight toward the scary thing.

 

And now, filed under their increasingly large dossier of Fucked Up Shit, they had a video of Josh Lambert and… Josh Lambert. Tucker was happy taking care of the technical end of that deal. He always kept A/V and RCA cables in his backpack, just in case, so in no time he had the video converted. VHS quality resolution did not play nicely with his CSI style cropping, but eventually, and masterfully, he would admit, Tucker managed to tease a somewhat clear picture out of it. Specs could worry about the theoretical implications of a man standing next to his younger self. Tucker had just worked a miracle of his own.

 

“This, this is different than souls reliving their defining moments.” Specs had stood up and sat down a few times already. Now he was pacing in a circle around the table. “This is a soul moving through the Further with purpose. And who do we know that does that?”

 

“Well, Josh, apparently.”

 

“ _Less specifically_ , travellers and mediums. People who can move through the Further while still alive. So at some point, we can assume, Josh managed to find his younger self and tell him something. Or ask him something.”

 

“Demons.”

 

“What?” Specs stopped pacing and looked around the reading room. The place always creeped him out. Red velvet didn’t belong outside of a Dario Argento film, wild and free in the real world.

 

“Demons. They move through the Further with purpose.”

 

“True, albeit somewhat irrelevant, since Josh isn’t a demon.”

 

“Maybe he is.” Tucker said in his spooky campfire story voice. Specs rolled his eyes.

 

“I guess the question is… is this significant? I mean, is it a clue? And I swear if you hum Blues Clues right now…” He always ruined the best jokes. “I wish I had my sketchpad.”

 

The sketchpad, along with the majority of their equipment and the entire van, had been collected by the police as evidence the night, or day, before. Between their sporadic and fitful naps and the ever waking nightmare of the circumstances, Specs and Tucker had lost track of time. Tucker coped well. Specs was left twitching like a meerkat. All their previous investigations had some grounding, some kind of agenda they could follow. Preliminary tests, bring in Elise, solve problem. Sometimes it got dicey, but it always had precedent. Now they were navigating uncharted territory, slipping down the rabbit hole and moving entirely on intuition, without Elise to guide them. Specs’ Dr. Jekyll side, the side that relied on structure and schedule to restrain him, was slowing succumbing to his impulsive Mr. Hyde, who operated on pure instinct. To anyone else this would look like a nervous meltdown. To Tucker it was just sexy. The reason he liked his men buttoned up was to see them unbutton- literally and figuratively.

 

Specs finally ran out of steam and sat down next to Tucker again, straddling the chair and resting his forehead on the back of it. Tucker gave him an encouraging little pat on the head.

 

“There’s smoke coming out of your ears.” Tucker said.

 

“I honestly have no idea what I’m doing.”

 

“Nothing new.”

 

“You think you’re funny-”

 

“I am.”

 

“But you’re really not.”

 

“I really am.”

 

Specs lifted his head and gave an exhausted little smile. “I don’t know what I’m more worried about. If there’s something to this, and we can find out who killed Elise, that means the Lamberts might still be in danger, and I don’t know if we can help them. But if… if there’s nothing, if we just never find out what happened to her, that might be worse.”

 

Tucker frowned. He needed Specs to be the optimistic one here. He needed his boy scout. Only Specs couldn’t be optimistic when a good outcome relied on him. Tucker signed ‘hungry?’ to him, knowing only one way of cheering people up. Specs was happy to oblige if it meant leaving the basement. He could feel eyes on him, if not from something beyond, than at least from Elise’s old paintings.

 

They went upstairs, leaving the computer, and the question, behind them to try to have a normal dinner. Specs and Tucker’s relationship was built on the foundation of traditions and habits. They had movie night on Fridays, waffle breakfast on Sundays, dinner at Puebla’s every Wednesday night. Come to think of it, most of their rituals revolved around food and leisure. It was just as well, though, considering these were the little things they did to unwind after standing in the face of the immortal beyond. These comforts, and each others’ company, were the only things that kept them sane. Relatively speaking.

 

It was for that reason that both agreed to give themselves one night of calm before what would no doubt be an impending storm. They were mutually grateful that the other tried to keep up banter. It had always been a shield for them, though its original purpose was to hide their attraction. Now it functioned as a flimsy way to push thoughts of their lost friend to the periphery. Going through her fridge, deciding what needed to be thrown out before it went bad, was making this especially difficult.

 

They found all the ingredients to make Elise’s favorite, red curry. She had actually learned to make it in Thailand, so Tucker had no hope of replicating her recipe, but they agreed to eat it in her memory, all sad smiles and manly throat clears. Tucker stood over the stove, watching Specs, who sat cross legged in front of the fridge going through the crisper drawer. He could see Specs slump, defeated and exhausted, only to rally himself back up with a big sigh and keep going. He’d barely slept, and yet he still went on pushing.

 

“When-” Specs had to cough to hold back his pesky emotions before going on. “When did you buy this cabbage?”

 

“Labor day.”

 

“Trash.” Specs dunked the head of cabbage in the trashcan next to him. It felt weirdly metaphorical, like a missed opportunity in the garbage. Tucker forgot to make the coleslaw for their barbeque. Now they would never have the coleslaw. Or another barbeque with Elise. Specs rubbed between his eyes like he could massage away another wave of grief, then shut the drawer harder than he needed to and stood up. He joined Tucker at the stove. “Smells good.”

 

“Thanks, what about the food?” Tucker said. Specs relied on idle chatter for comfort, Tucker on shallow humor.

 

“She teach you how to make it?”

 

“Yeah,” Tucker quirked an eyebrow as he thought. “Two months ago? I think.”

 

It had been during one of his nights alone with Elise. The only thing that could separate Specs and Tucker from each other was the opportunity to have one on one time with her. Specs usually decided when that time would be, but it was at Elise’s insistence that Tucker ever went over on his own. Tucker ascribed to what Gerardo at Taste of Puebla called ‘leaving it to _mañana_ ,’ a type of procrastination that relied on the assumption that there would even be a mañana. With regard to Elise, this meant maintaining the delicate dance of avoiding emotional conversation topics. He always assumed he would tell her about his mother eventually. He would tell her more about his feelings for Specs eventually. He would tell her how much she meant to him eventually. Well now mañana had come.

 

“You guys did a lot of stuff together.” Specs said, nudging a spoon around the pan of simmering onions in front of him.

 

“So did you.”

 

“Nah, I just… annoyed her.” Specs said. The Tucker of a few days ago would say he annoyed everyone, but his systems were sluggish, and his sarcasm reflex was on rest mode. “We mostly talked shop. You know, implications of Jung’s survival of the unconscious, notional theories on demon origins.”

 

Tucker could see the measuring contest of self-deprecation this was leading to. Specs could sell himself short on anything, but not this. Luckily Tucker had all the right words to make him feel better. “Don’t be stupid, Kowalski. Elise loved talking to you about… all that stuff.” He said, nudging Specs a little with his elbow. Specs nudged back. “I’m sorry, I’m gonna be a shit replacement in that department. I don’t know anything about Jung.”

 

“That’s ok. I made due with you before, I’ll make due with you now.”

 

It felt sacrilegious somehow to upset the Scrabble game they had left on the table, so Specs and Tucker took their bowls to the tv room sofa and huddled together under a blanket with the background noise of Saw 3 on the screen. When things were bad it always helped to watch someone else going through worse. Tucker made no attempt to keep himself from leaning halfway into Specs’ lap. Maybe this would be their new normal. They certainly didn’t have any energy left to pretend they didn’t want to be closer.

 

Specs took a deep breath. Tucker always smelled like a contradiction, a mix of rugged welding fumes and sweet baking. His shaggy hair had finally grown out just in time to help him cover the receding hairline he pretended wasn't there. Years of gentle suggestion had him dressing better- not perfect, but better, in simple t-shirts and jeans. His toe still stuck out of a ripped sock. Baby steps. Specs smiled. Tucker didn’t get much of a childhood, so he couldn’t fault him for being a man-child, but he’d changed a lot already. They still bickered. The competitiveness hadn’t gone away. But there was a simultaneously terrifying and comforting confidence that Tucker wasn’t going anywhere.

 

After all his hesitation, all his fear, the moment Specs decided he wanted more came quietly, almost unconsciously. In the face of everything they had just been through and everything that waited for them tomorrow, his father seemed small; an annoyance, really. He’d been lonely before that bum moved into his garage, when all he had was his parents. Now he wasn’t. And for all his guilt about leading Tucker on or breaking his heart, he never asked to be put in that position. He wasn’t the one who made it an ultimatum in the first place.

 

“Are you even listening to me?”

 

“Huh?” Specs blinked a few times to bring himself back to reality. Tucker paused the movie and stared at him impatiently.

 

“What was I just talking about?” He asked.

 

“Um. The movie?”

  
“Yeah. It sucks.” Oh right. Specs always tuned Tucker out when he rambled.


	22. Oh What a Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs, Tucker, Carl and Lorraine brave one wild night with the help of Tucker's bolt cutter, Bethel.

**Our Lady of the Angels**

 

“Well. There it is. Creepy hospital.”

 

The gang rolled up to Our Lady of the Angels just past dusk. In a piece called “Paranormal Paths: Preventing Potential Pitfalls” Specs encouraged his zine readers to survey their stakeout locations during daylight to identify safety hazards in abandoned and dilapidated buildings before sneaking in at night. It pained him to break his own advice, but by the time they had collected their van and belongings back from the police, it was already late, and they didn’t have the luxury of time. 

 

They’d been inching up the lift hill since the night before, but it was a call from Lorraine Lambert that nudged them over the edge of the roller coaster they currently found themselves on. Specs remembered a brief moment of peace just before the plummet, when he woke up that morning to find he and Tucker had fallen asleep together on the couch, Tucker’s head resting on his chest- and not for want of any better pillows. Specs was about to allow himself the most platonic of hair ruffles when his cellphone started rattling on the coffee table, like a tap on the shoulder reminding him the nightmare wasn’t over yet. Lorraine confirmed the worst of their fears and left them with one conclusion: they needed help.

 

Tucker had been reluctant to call Elise’s old associate, Carl Felt. He knew they needed a medium if they were going to get anywhere, but his pride left him wanting preserve the illusion that he and Specs were the only important people in Elise’s world. Not to mention he had critiques of the man’s videography skills. He called him Chalky Carl behind his back. Specs didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it was rude, and Tucker received a record number of irritated shushes in the few hours they had known Carl. 

 

“Question now is, how do we get in?” Carl asked from the back of the van. Tucker had driven, and when Tucker drove, he called the shots on who sat where. Lorraine got the privilege of sitting up front. Specs smiled apologetically to Carl over the course of the bumpy ride.

 

Tucker snapped off his seatbelt. “No worries there. Specs and I will find a way in.”

 

“It’s something we try to avoid when we can-”

 

“There’s probably a rock looking to meet a nice window around here somewhere.” Tucker said when they all climbed out of the Mystery Mobile. He walked up to the chain link fence that surrounded the building and tapped a reflective ‘Keep Out’ sign. “It’s like they’re begging for it.”

 

“If it helps,” Lorraine said. “There’s a hall along the east wing that’s lined with paned windows at ground level. If we can get around that side of the building it should be pretty easy to get inside.”

 

Tucker liked Lorraine. If they were picking teams, he wanted her. Specs and Carl could be team eight eyes. 

 

“Got it. Bethel can help us in.” Tucker said with a snap of his fingers.

 

“Bethel?” Carl asked, but Tucker was already walking around the back of the van.

 

“He names all his tools.” Specs explained matter of factly, so used to Tucker’s ways he didn’t even consider how strange it was anymore. Tucker answered the question himself when he came back with bolt cutters slung over his shoulder. They traced the fence until it led to a gate, where Tucker jiggled the chain holding it shut before fixing Bethel’s mouth around the padlock and snapping it open. 

 

“Baruch haba.” He said with a triumphant smirk. Specs frowned when Tucker handed the bolt cutters back to him. They made no attempt to conceal their strange relationship in front of other people. They lived in a bubble, often fighting and flirting with complete disregard for those around them. Elise had fit into that bubble. Carl and Lorraine would take some warming up. Thus far they considered the pair with a mixture of amusement and reserved discomfort.

 

“Ladies first.” Tucker said as he swung the gate open and held Specs back with a hand on his shoulder. Lorraine smiled and thanked him before she led the group through the gate and into the yard. Specs couldn’t help but appreciate the stereotypical spookiness of the place. The big stone building was guarded by gargoyles over the main entrance. A cloud of bats fluttered out from over the roof when they got closer. He would have to come back another time and sketch this place.

 

Specs and Tucker stuck close together when they slipped through the window into Our Lady of the Angel’s east wing. They had broken into their fair share of places before- mostly abandoned houses, hotels, and one puppet factory. This building felt especially off. It didn’t help that every so often Carl would hum thoughtfully, pause, and stare into the distance. Elise used to do the same thing. But everything he stopped for seemed to be a false alarm.

 

“Hard to keep focused on what we’re looking for.” Carl explained. “There’s a lot of death here.”

 

“Obviously.” Tucker muttered. Specs elbowed him, sending his camera’s light flickering across the hall. 

 

Their search (which, like most parts of the investigation so far, entailed looking for something before they knew what they were looking for) brought them to the ICU. At this point, Tucker couldn’t help but feel suspicious. He was a man of evidence, not intuition, but right now he couldn’t reconcile with either. It felt a bit odd for Elise to be leading them on such a vague and potentially dangerous journey. The Elise he knew spoke straight when the stakes were high. Wouldn’t she just tell them what they needed to know? To be fair, he didn’t know the rules of how everything worked in the Further. That was Specs’ wheelhouse. There might be some reason her ability to communicate with them was limited. Aside from being dead, of course. But something just didn’t seem right. He thought it would be more cathartic to connect with her from beyond; that he would feel some kind of motherly comfort or be given a sign she cared. 

 

Of course, he’d made that mistake before. Maybe it was time to accept there was no mother watching over him from beyond, biological or otherwise.

 

He didn’t trust himself enough to bring up his concern. There were four of them, after all, and no one else seemed to have the same reservations. Specs didn’t really count though, considering he blindly would barrell after any mystery shaped carrot that dangled in front of him, even if it led directly to danger. It was one of his charms, really.

 

“Parker Crane.” Tucker couldn’t help but drum up a few associates with that name. Jonathan Crane made sense. Standard loony. For some reason he was also thinking Bob Crane. That one left him whistling the  _ Hogan’s Heroes  _ theme down the echoey hallways when they embarked to go find Parker’s patient chart. It occurred to him that all famous Cranes either were psychiatrists or needed one, Parker being a member of the latter. “Crane, Crane, Crane.” He repeated while he shuffled through the charts. They weren’t in any order, which was fair, considering they weren’t supposed to be there at all anymore.

 

“Isn’t this illegal?” Specs asked uncomfortably when they reached the records room. “I mean, this is a very clear violation of HIPAA laws.”

 

“Rules are made to be broken, my friend.” Tucker said. He had a habit of parroting meaningless cliches when they suited his needs.

 

“Uh, actually no, they make them specifically so you don’t break them. Especially with laws. Things you can go to jail for.”

 

“Does it violate HIPAA if he’s dead?”

 

“Yes. Yes it does.”

 

“If you look at private information in a forest and nobody's around to see you, is it still against the law?”

 

“Yes it is.”

 

“Of course, I  _ am _ a doctor.” Lorraine interjected. Tucker grinned. They were keeping her.

  
  


**8871 Sparrow Avenue**

  
  


“Don’t touch anything.”

 

Specs immediately touched something. He tunnel visioned when it came to investigations, and right now they were on the mother of them all. Things were happening too fast to even bother talking about it. They had all seen it, anyway: the doors slamming around them, the dice revealing what Tucker already feared. It was an altogether sickening betrayal, obvious in hindsight, but no less shocking. The spirit who had been leading them by bread crumbs was never Elise. And now she had them trapped. So if they were going down tonight, as far as Specs was concerned, they were going down in a blaze of glorious investigative journalism, and he would touch whatever he wanted.

 

Under normal circumstances Specs would be excited by a trunk full of newspaper clippings, but tonight he worked with grave focus. There was little to be excited about. As a boy he read about serial killers with a disturbingly keen interest, and he knew the crime spree of the Bride in Black well. He had been sent to the principal's office after giving a presentation on it in the sixth grade. The article he held in his hand now had been the very one his dad tore up when he found it in his room. Things had a way of coming full circle in less than satisfying ways for him.

 

Tucker stood back and let Specs and Carl work their way through the logical implications of what they had found: that Parker Crane, who stalked Josh through his childhood, finally found his way into the vessel he wanted, killed Elise, and now had the rest of the Lamberts at his mercy. It felt a bit unfair. Elise had such a fantastic life. She once exorcised an entire superfluity of Carmelites in Indonesia- victims fed on by the souls of dead villagers, she had told him. To be brought down by nothing more than a second-rate costumed serial killer seemed out of proportion. To add insult, now said serial killer’s mommy had them sealed up in a tomb that was already at capacity, as far as Tucker was concerned. Specs and Carl could talk all they wanted, it wouldn’t get them out of here.

 

“Um, guys.” He traced the light of the camera around the room. That old scraping noise that had led them into their rat trap returned, now scratching around on the ceiling above them. It sounded like furniture being dragged across the floor. Specs and Carl stopped talking and looked up. “We should probably go. Now.”

 

“She’s here. Closer than before.” Carl said. 

 

Tucker turned around toward the bookcase they entered through. Pillars of dust rained down in the foyer. The movement from above was growing more violent. He dared to step out just far enough to point his camera toward the top landing of the stairs. What he saw on his viewfinder only appeared for a second: a silhouette in white that suddenly shot backward from the light. Tucker bumped into Specs when he jumped back. 

 

“What? What is it?” Specs hissed. Tucker felt Specs’ hand close around his shoulder as if to hold him up. 

 

“I don’t think she wants us to leave yet.”

 

They all closed ranks in front of the door, Lorraine hiding behind Specs and Tucker while Carl took another step out into the foyer. The minute his foot passed the threshold the book case flew across the room like nothing more than a feather in the wind. It crashed against the opposite wall against the only open doorway. Carl didn’t hesitate, following the bookcase across the room and trying to tilt it back. 

 

“Check the other doors.” He commanded. No one had time to question. Specs went for the front door and jiggled the handle. It would be too good to be true if it opened. He considered breaking through the wide decorative window -it was just big enough they could probably fit through- but a firm elbow to the glass did nothing and there was nothing he could break it with in sight. 

 

Tucker swung through the beaded curtain into the next room, hesitating only for a second to look back up the stairs, before he tugged on the two doors to adjacent rooms. It was like they had been cemented in place. He tried ramming into them but nothing budged. That left him with the window they had climbed through, down the longest, darkest hallway. 

 

“Alright bitch.” He muttered and cracked his neck. The last 72 hours had steeled him in a way. Not that he wasn't completely petrified, but these were the assholes that killed Elise, and he was done playing mouse to their cat. He checked the stairway one more time before heading down the hall. The scraping above continued, but the hall seemed mostly at peace. Tucker tried to keep a steady hand as he pointed the camera ahead of him. By god, they were at least going to get this all on film.

 

He successfully shuffled his way down the hall and around the corner to the room they had entered through- something that looked like a den or a parlor or whatever well to do people had back in mid century America. The window was still wide open.

 

“Guys!” He shouted, but he was immediately drowned out by the sound of a louder scream. The source couldn't be placed. It sounded like it echoed from every part of the house, and it was not a scream of fear, but frustration. The lady of the house was angry. Suddenly one of the doors opened near Tucker and he found himself eye to eye with that angry white silhouette. Tucker had seen shadowy figures. He'd seen poltergeists. He'd seen more than his share of pale, grotesque figures only a few nights ago. This woman practically looked alive. Solid, stern, purposeful, even beautiful, but very clearly ready to kill him. He lurched back, only to catch his backpack on the doorway. The solid handle of his beloved Bethel dug into his ribs and caused him to yell in pain. Before he could put mind over matter his knees hit the floor. Tucker had no time to let his life flash before his eyes. Just a second's thought of 'this is it.' Dying doing what he loved would feel more satisfying if it didn't mean failing to protect everyone else.

 

The next thing he heard was what he could only assume was his own dying scream. Rather pitiful sounding too. Significantly more pitiful than he ever remembered himself sounding. A lot like Specs, in fact. The next thing he knew he was being hoisted onto his feet by Carl and Lorraine, and Specs was standing between him and where Mrs. Crane had been standing. He could see blood spreading across Specs' forearm.

 

“Are you ok?” They asked each other simultaneously. Tucker spun Specs around to face him.

 

“Yeah yeah, I'm fine. It's fine.” Specs stammered. The scratch wasn't deep, but it didn't look pleasant either. Tucker squeezing his arm like it would run away didn't help anything. His other hand held the camera. Tucker hadn't let go of it the entire time.

 

“Did you see her?” Tucker asked.

 

“Yes.” Carl said. He flinched at the sound of more furniture slamming around them. “We need to go.”

 

“The wind- oh.” Tucker pointed his light to the window. Their one route of escape was blocked by Mrs. Crane, and she looked even angrier than before, it that was possible.

 

The group made a collective dash back down the hall and into the foyer, finding themselves boxed back into the same trap they started in. Specs, Lorraine, and Carl had checked every other door. They could barely get to a boarded up window without something flying out to crush them. It seemed like they were out of options.

 

“If I distract her you guys can go to the window.” Specs said.

 

“Like hell you will.” Tucker replied. If anyone would be distracting anyone, it would be him, not Specs. It occurred to Tucker that might be exactly what he needed to do: let himself be taken, or eaten, or whatever ghosts did to kill the living. It had been real enough to take Elise down. The resolution felt strangely ok to him though. Yes, he would definitely die for Specs, and for the rest of them. Not happily, but he’d do it versus the alternative. The only thing that really bothered him was how much time he had wasted. He had lots of things he meant to do before he died, first on that list being Specs himself. 

 

Tucker looked over at Specs, who was probably resolving himself to all the same things. He felt a pang of regret, then fear that Specs would still somehow get hurt, and suddenly he realized that the length of one hallway was about all the time he had to spend with him. 

 

“Specs.”

 

“Huh?” Specs didn’t take his eyes off the hall. He was busy giving Lorraine a strong arm to hold onto and a body to hide behind. 

 

“I need to tell you something.” Tucker said. His heart pounded. Somehow this was scarier than anything else going on around him. He had to say it though.

 

“Wha-” Specs finally looked up. Only his eyes went past Tucker, over his shoulder. “Hold that thought.”

 

“But-”

 

Before Tucker could protest, Specs had thrown down the camera, reached over his shoulder, and pulled Bethel out of his backpack. The house shook around them under the collective wrath of Maven Crane, but Specs managed to stumble to the front door. Youth baseball did not treat him kindly, but he at least knew how to swing, so with one desperate blow he reeled back and shattered the glass door. He used the side of his bare fist to crack away a few remaining shards from the frame. No one needed to be told what to do next. Specs helped Lorraine and Carl climb through past the jagged glass. When he gestured back to Tucker for his turn, Tucker shook his head and practically pushed Specs through by the scruff of his neck. He stumbled out behind him into the overgrown front yard of the house. 

 

Everyone scrambled away from the door toward the street where they all collapsed against the side of the van. They watched for a moment to see if she would follow them out, but it was as if they had passed through a portal. Outside it was quiet, cool, and still, like nothing had happened just past that door. Tucker was the first to break the silence.

 

“Son of a  _ bitch _ .” No truer words had been spoken. 

  
  


**Home Base  
**

 

“Son of a bitch.”

 

“Well stop moving.”

 

Tucker had never worked with such an uncooperative patient. Specs needed stitches, that much was clear. Between the ghost clawing and glass breaking he had thoroughly cut up his arm. He wouldn’t go to the hospital though. They didn’t have much time, and they needed to get to the Lamberts as soon as possible to, in Specs words, ‘contain the situation.’ In true form he had half dozen Wile E. Coyote plans formulated before they made it back to Elise’s house. They finally agreed to let Lorraine warn Renai, while the rest of them mobilized on the house to tranquilize and then, hopefully, exorcise Josh. Specs didn’t even bother asking where Tucker got tranquilizer. His questionable pastimes were best left to the imagination.

 

Tucker still insisted on sterilizing and bandaging Specs up. He forced him to stay outside so they wouldn’t get blood on the hardwood floors. They sat together on the porch swing while Tucker gently dabbed the wounds with a cotton swab of alcohol. Every time he did Specs would yank his arm back, so Tucker pulled Specs’ hand down and pinned it under his knee.

 

“Stop being a baby.” He growled. He was still mad Specs had even taken a hit for him. Stubborn little idiot. Tucker moved on to gently wrapping a sterile bandage up the length of Specs’ arm. It would have to do for a temporary fix. Tucker wasn’t particularly religious, but he sent a thank you to whomever that this was the worst of the damage they met with that night. It felt surreal to be resting on the front porch, sun rising to remind him he had gone another night without sleeping, when only an hour before he had been contemplating sacrificing his life. 

 

“What did you want to tell me?” Specs said. In the moment he had been too distracted by his impending untimely death, but it suddenly occurred to him that Tucker had wanted to say something. Tucker paused just briefly enough that Specs didn’t notice his hesitation. In the face of death, telling Specs  _ the thing _ seemed easy, almost imperative. Now that they were safe it went back to being terrifying.

 

“I- just wanted to tell you that we could use Bethel to get out.” Not his smoothest attempt.

 

“Yeah right, don’t try to take credit for that. I masterminded that perfect escape.”

 

Tucker scoffed and lifted Specs’ bandaged arm. “You call this a perfect escape? You’re a real genius, all right.”

 

They scowled at each other playfully. Not his smoothest attempt at all, but Tucker did successfully derail the conversation. There had to be an award for being so good at that. Specs didn’t completely miss the subtext though. He knew, after all, even if Tucker didn’t know he knew. It really was all on him if they were going to say it, and having brushed so closely with death so many times, with more still left for them to do, maybe now was the best time. He scanned Tucker’s face, as if to evaluate the question one more time. Yes. Yes he definitely loved him. He had the wounds to prove it.

 

“Tucker, I, I uh-” The same old roadblock that kept them apart reared it’s head: awkwardness.

 

“Excuse me.” Carl’s head popped out the front door. Specs and Tucker instinctively pulled away from each other, with Specs turning on his seat to face Carl. “I don’t suppose I could take a quick shower? It’s like I can’t get the smell of that place off my skin.”

 

“Oh sure.” Specs started. He jumped up, hospitality mode fully engaged. “Sure sure. Let me get you a towel and um, I’ll get everything set for you. Yeah, I know what you mean…”

 

Tucker sighed as Specs disappeared into the house. There went… whatever that weird exchange had been. Carl stepped out onto the porch for a breath of fresh air. They hadn’t exactly hit it off, and Tucker felt not desire to strike up a conversation, but Carl tried anyway.

 

“Quite the night. Is this ah, a frequent thing for you?”

 

“Nope.”   
  


Carl tugged off his glasses and started to clean them on the hem of his shirt. Tucker undercompensated on politeness where Specs overcompensated, and the push and pull between the two of them certainly led to awkwardness, as if the other things going on that night weren’t enough. Carl did his best with it though.

 

“You know, I realize… you two meant a lot to Elise. I hadn’t spoken to her much in the last few years, but I can certainly see, she sure brought you into her life. It’s a pretty special thing. She had a way of making people feel important. It felt like a privilege to have known her. And for you guys… well, I can’t imagine what that means for you now. I- I’m sorry, for how difficult this must be for you.”

 

Tucker didn’t allow people into his world very easily, especially his emotional world, so hearing sympathy from someone he sort of didn’t like felt strange. Elise had made them feel special, to the point where he wanted to believe they were her whole world. He knew that wasn’t true though. He and Specs had spent one intense and life changing year with her. Carl had known her for decades.

 

“Yeah, uh, you too.” Tucker said with a shrug. 

 

“You know I-.” Carl paused, smiled, and shook his head. “I always carried a torch for her. I met her in college and she was just as remarkable then as ever. I was always sure she was out of my league though. She was probably out of everyone’s. Then she met Jack and, of course I was happy for her, but… that question never leaves you. I’ll always have that little bit of regret of never knowing.”

  
Tucker eyed him from the porch swing. Apparently Carl had trained at the Elise School of Subtle Advice. Tucker prided himself at his ability to hide his feelings, but his own torch for Specs had gotten a bit too bright to hide. This was probably where the heartbreak he always anticipated would come in. He would have to tell Specs, and hear the inevitable ‘no’, just to avoid the regret of never knowing. But Tucker took Carl’s Subtle Advice™ for what it was worth. Carl wasn’t so bad after all. They could keep him too.


	23. It's the Same Old Song

Falafel Friday. Fighting about what movie to watch. Talking about their dreams over a game of chess where he was obviously cheating. Sneaking a look when he staggered to the shower every morning. What they could have been. All the things Specs would miss now that Tucker was- oh, no, he found a pulse. In hindsight it would probably take a lot more tranquilizer to kill Tucker, especially now that Specs had a very clear idea of just how heavy he was. Specs had used the same steps for escaping quicksand to get out from underneath him. There wasn’t a lot of quicksand in LA, as far as he was aware, but rule number one of paranormal investigation was  _ always be prepared _ , and he took that very seriously.

 

There was little time to shake himself out of his own haze. When he came to he briefly remembered a dream wherein his dad showed up at Parker Crane’s house and told him to go to his room. He sort of wished he had woken up there. Instead Specs found himself back in his revolving door of concussions. The screaming from around the house told him he hadn’t slept through the difficult part. With Tucker’s mortality established and Specs’ own well-being unimportant (to him), he attempted to run heroically to the nearest scream, though it manifested as more of a pathetic stagger.

 

“Lorraine?” Specs was momentarily appalled to see Lorraine bruised and imprisoned in her own bathroom. He had little fear left, having transitioned fully into ‘fuck it’ mode the minute not-Josh had pulled a knife on Carl, but a new sensation of righteous anger, or concussed confusion, suddenly compelled him. “Where is he?”

 

“He’s got Renai.” Lorraine led him to the basement door.

 

“Stay here.” He ordered. In this moment, Tucker would probably have stopped to look for some kind of weapon, or considered sneaking up on the target, or anything reasonable- but Tucker wasn’t there, so things were going to happen the Specs way, and the Specs way meant heading straight down those stairs toward the danger. After all, the  _ unspoken _ first rule of paranormal investigation was protect the client first, and that trumped all other rules. Sure his peripheral vision was a bit foggy as he went down the stairs, and sure his depth perception didn’t help him climb through the hole in the drywall in particularly chivalrous manner, but when he saw a demon primed to attack innocent little boy, nothing could stop him from launching all 138 pounds of his weight at Josh.

 

He did what he came to do, what he was born to do, for all of about five seconds. He stopped Josh’s first swing by grabbing his wrist, and got a glimpse straight into the eyes of a man clearly possessed, before the revolving door smacked into him one more time. Specs sent one silent prayer to Elise, Patron Saint of the Further, in the hope that she was really there watching over them, then his head connected with the concrete.

 

Tucker never tried drugs. Bad associations and all that. So this was probably the closest he would ever get to being high, short of the time he spray painted his radiant UV spectrum meter with the garage door closed. He didn't like it. At first he thought he was blind. Easy mistake, considering he woke up face first on a dark floor. It took a while for his spatial orientation to line up before he realized he was even on the ground. When he remembered he had arms he found it difficult to use them. He resorted to rolling over and wiggling his back up the side of the sofa. A quick look around the dark room help him recollect exactly what got him there in the first place. Things had escalated quickly and ended with a syringe in his thigh. Fucking needles. He hated them.

 

He knew the stuff he bought was clean. He had a guy who worked at the zoo, and they had a lot of regulations. That said, he started to worry about side effects. He didn't go blind, sure, but he couldn't hear anything either. Maybe everyone else was dead. Hadn't he fallen on top of Specs? He always imagined it the other way around... Tucker tried to snap his fingers to check his hearing, but if his major motor skills were diminished, his fine motor skills were royally fucked. Instead he used his head to bump a stack of coasters off the end table next to him. That achieved a clatter he could hear. Hearing and sight were sort of important. Taste and smell were very important, but maybe he needed to go see what was going on before he raided the fridge to test those.

 

Tucker worked his way slowly up the side of the sofa, carefully balancing until he felt he could stand on his own power. He felt another rush of dizziness as his blood figured out where to flow again. That's when he noticed Carl. Damn. He had meant to be nicer to him. If it hadn't taken so much time to stand up, he would have gone back down to check Carl's pulse. He needed to see if anyone else was around first though. Especially that pesky dead weight he called his business partner. Specs seriously had a death wish, running inside like that. What he thought he would achieve was a mystery. His habit of jumping in front of proverbial bullets for other people needed to stop.

 

Tucker stumbled his way out to the main entrance, where he fell against a wall. He patted the wall. More helpful than Specs. Trusty wall. He started to inch his way along it when he heard noises- voices coming from somewhere ahead. It was all very vague, though he could hear 'oh my gods,' so that had to be bad. Ok. They weren't all dead. Just dying. He had resolved himself to a heroic sacrifice once already, might as well do it again. So he mustered the shred of coordination he had left and shuffled down the hall to the kitchen.

 

Weirdly splintered open basement door. Voices beyond it. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just more of his extended weekend from hell. He looked around for a knife, or anything to protect himself.  _ Fuck it _ . Would it really make a difference? Time to pull a Specs and go down, incapacitated, to challenge a ghost to fisticuffs. All Specs' talk of their work being for the good of the people- in his hazy state, that rubbish was starting to make sense to Tucker. He practically tumbled down the stairs under this new conviction. 

 

“Bring it!” He yelled when he jumped through the drywall. His attempt at a dashing leap forward failed, and he found himself colliding back into the wall. Damned wall. Traitor. He looked over into the rest of the basement to see everyone else staring back at him. None of them dead. Were they hugging demon Josh? Sure. Why not. All the action had apparently gone down without him. He really could nap through anything.

 

The sight of Specs, just staggering up with a fresh shiner and a bloody lip, sparked an intense sense of relief. Little guy could take a hit or two.

 

“Are you ok?” Specs practically tripped over the Lambert dog pile to get to Tucker. They collided into something of a half hug, Specs grabbing Tucker by the arms to hold him up and checking him over as if to make sure everything was still in one place. Tucker didn't stop him. He'd rather have Specs hold him up than a wall any day. They checked each other up and down, 'oh my gods' and 'are you okays' muttered over and over again, before Tucker grabbed him by the back of the neck and pulled him into a real hug. Tucker's sense of smell was okay. He could smell that beautiful, wonderful shampoo as he nuzzled against Specs' hair.

 

Specs let all the pent up fear and worry of the last few nights out in one shuddering breath against Tucker's chest. He had never gone from being so scared to being so grateful. Specs didn't know what he would do if something happened to the big idiot, and he couldn't imagine how Tucker would live on his own if he wasn't there to take care of him. While the Lamberts had their own family reunion off to the side, Specs and Tucker had one in their own bubble.

 

“You look like shit.” Tucker finally said, pulling back to get a better look at Specs’ injuries.

 

“You’re one to talk.” 

 

“Please. I’m healthy as a house.” Tucker slumped a forward. Specs propped him up by the arms. Concussed and tranquilized, they hardly noticed they had come almost nose to nose, all normal reservations eroded. Tucker slid a hand under Specs' chin and rubbed the little bit of blood away from his lip. He let his hand stay there when Specs didn't protest. Strange how easy it was when they couldn't do much overthinking. Tucker felt a surge of affection without the usual never could they ever attitude to hold him back. He was just glad they were alive. This new proximity could be nothing more than a whim of the moment; caught up in the rush of near death, but they’d both been making provisions these last few days, if just for the comfort of intimacy with Elise gone. Sleeping close, fighting just the slightest bit less. When the haze wore off, they’d have reality to face again, and with that would come the question of where they stood. Right now, though, standing inches from each other? This right here was golden.

 

Their expressions were just beginning to fade from relieved to slightly embarrassed when Specs remembered they weren’t the only people in the room. He stepped back and shifted into the routine of awkward gestures he needed to compose himself. Straighten the tie, adjust the glasses. Just as soon as he had it together he found himself being pulled into another hug, this time by Lorraine.

 

“Thank you, thank you.” She repeated. Specs barely recovered before she transferred to Tucker, offering the same squeezing, teary eyed hug. Renai gave a slightly more restrained version of the same thanks. She made eye contact with Specs over Josh’s shoulder, and, clearly still shaking from fear and sudden comfort, she gave him a teary smile. More self-assured, Specs might remember he put himself between danger and her son, but he couldn’t think of a single reason why they’d want to thank him. Even Tucker, never inclined to turn down praise, seemed a little overwhelmed by the gesture. 

 

“Where’s Carl?”

 

“It’s alright.” Josh said. Strange to hear him speak. They never had the best impression of him from the start of it all, but having just seen him possessed, it was even more startling a difference that he was back in his body. “He came back with me.”

 

“You mean-” Specs bristled at the possibility. They were in the Further. Interviews would be had. Josh stood up, Renai and the kids still sticking to him like he was a magnet. The color had come back to his flesh, and the look in his eye, fatherly and all too tired, let them know he was indeed himself. 

 

“We wouldn’t have made it back at all if it weren’t for Elise.”

 

Specs and Tucker skipped the same heartbeat at her name. They had been chasing the hope that she was somehow still near. They wanted to know she was at peace, but then, to hear she had come back to save their sorry asses just one more time gave them a certain selfish satisfaction. When they moved upstairs, and verified that yes, Carl had made it back safe and in time for their fortunate ending, both Josh and Carl at turns told them everything about Elise’s heroism. It was a bittersweet revelation. To the Lamberts she was someone who had made perhaps too many sacrifices on their behalf. For Specs and Tucker it was a reminder of that much more they owed her, and missed her. 

 

The whole household fell into exhausted silence when the tale had been told. Their sleepless nightmare had ended, and the resolution left them all in a sort of surreal hangover, like soldiers picking up and leaving the battlefield. After days of fighting they could finally sleep, which is exactly what Lorraine insisted they do. It had drawn well past midnight. Any postlude could wait until the morning. 

 

Tucker didn’t wait much longer after that to ask for food. While Specs and Lorraine made up beds on the living room sofas, he helped himself to the full offering of Lorraine’s fridge, eventually selecting a plate of leftover ziti and popping it in the microwave. He started to feel better -he was moving around on his own power at least- but as the tranqs wore off, so did the comforting benefit of euphoria it brought. They had a happy ending. They were all safe and sound and decidedly not about to get murdered. But now terror had been replaced with the aching knowledge that the story wasn’t really over. He and Specs still had to go home to an empty house. They still had to put Elise in the ground. They still had to have some very difficult conversations. Tucker wouldn’t repeat the last few days, but they certainly made for a decent distraction.

 

“You ok?” Specs said, apparently noticing the look on Tucker’s face when he walked into the kitchen. He was down to his slacks and undershirt, pale and bruised and looking even more pathetic than usual, but still Tucker’s ideal. He went for the fridge and pulled out some milk. “Lorraine is still willing to take you to the hospital if you want to be on fluids.”

 

Tucker shook his head. Lorraine had checked them both over already. They were stable, for the most part. Specs probably needed to follow up with a neurologist one of these days. “No, I’m fine. They never believe us anyway.”

 

They had tried a few hospitals over the years, but for some reason no one believed them when they explained where they acquired their injuries. Tucker was pretty sure they were on a watch list for domestic abuse.

 

Specs poured himself a cup of milk. Tucker removed his mostly warm ziti from the microwave. They leaned against the counter next to each other in silence for a while.

 

“We can’t use any of it, can we?” Specs finally said.

 

“What?”

 

“The stuff. The footage. Our big story. We can’t use any of it.” He looked up and Tucker with a sad, childish expression. “Carl says they need to forget. The last thing they need is a national news story about what just happened here. We have to get rid of it all, or they could have this happen all over again.”

 

“Oh yeah.” Tucker muttered through his food. Great. Another thing to depress him. If one good thing could come of all of this, it was the fact that they had just recorded a lifetime's worth of paranormal activity: undeniable, verifiable, timestamped and recorded at multiple angles. They would have to burn it all. Everything he ever wanted. Tucker sighed. Years ago he resolved to be a bit more like Specs, at least in terms of his selflessness. Now he had to act on that resolution.

 

“I’m really sorry. I know it was your dream. Ours.” Specs said.

 

“Nah.” Tucker replied with a shrug. “The stuff we got was bad anyway. No one would believe it. It’s all shit. Blurry. I mean, most of what you recorded was useless.”

 

“Hey, I got a clear shot of Par-”

 

“Nope.” 

 

Specs caught on and decided to play along. If it helped Tucker cope, then so be it. They had just been on the cusp of living out their most coveted dream. It would be so easy. But rule number one trumped all.

 

“We’ll find a better case.” Specs agreed.

 

“Maybe. If you learn how to hold a camera.”

 

“And I’ll write my book.”

 

“If you learn how to write a book.”

 

“We’ll get there.”

 

Tucker kept himself from smiling by taking a big bite of food. It felt good to have trustworthy, honest, helpful, friendly, et al. Specs at his side. It made watching his dreams spiral down the toilet just a bit more tolerable. They would just keep keeping on like they always had, chasing the dream, being average and perfectly mediocre, but mediocre together. They had just saved some people, anyway. They didn’t get to brag about it on national news, but they did Specs’ oh so favorite ‘right thing’, and that wasn’t half bad either. 

 

Specs finished his glass of milk and swirled it in the bottom of his cup. His body wanted to lay down, but if he could find the power, he wouldn’t mind talking to Tucker all night. He just couldn’t think of what exactly it was he wanted to say. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to broach ‘the thing.’ Best to have Tucker at 100% of his mental faculties for that. Then again, if nothing else, this night had proven nothing could be taken for granted. Maybe now was precisely the time-honored ‘right moment?’ Specs shook his head to clear it.

 

“Talking to yourself?” Tucker asked with a smirk.

 

“No.”

 

“Yeah you were, weirdo.” Tucker bumped his arm playfully with his ziti plate. “What are you guys talking about?”

 

Specs gave him a little side-eye, which was less effective with the dark circles he was sporting. “Nothing.” He shot back. Taking things for granted. Don’t. “I just- just thinking how close we came tonight.”

 

“To dying?”

 

“Yeah.” Specs said. He tried to sound casual, almost dismissive. An old Tucker trick he wasn’t as good at. “I almost thought I lost you.”

 

“Not getting me out of your garage that easy. But if I died you know I would haunt the shit out of you.” Tucker grinned when he got a scoff out of Specs. Anything to make him smile. It was almost as good as making him mad. And either of their old habits were a comfort now. “Seriously though, if anything ever happens-”

 

“Don’t say that.” Specs looked up him.

 

“Just listen. I have a baby sister. She can look after herself but… just look after her.”

 

Specs nodded submissively. After Elise, that was the last thing he wanted to think about. It occurred to him that he had no dying wishes. Not outside of making sure Tucker was alright. Maybe an apology to his parents. Just to say sorry for being a disappointment. He didn’t regret his choices in life. He just regretted knowing he would never hear his parents say they were proud. A loud burp from Tucker broke up the melancholy.

 

“What is wrong with you?” Specs shoved him on the arm, quite ineffectively.

 

“Just for you, baby.” Tucker winked. Specs blushed. Nothing charming about the guy, but now he was in too deep. Even the worst things about Tucker were part of the best thing possible. Specs still had his hand on Tucker’s arm. He let it stay there. Tucker’s smirk faded a bit. He was used to how oblivious Specs was. The little touches were all just Specs failing for the millionth time to realize their implication. Through the years he hoped it would get easier, but it had only gotten more difficult, especially given how tired and raw Tucker felt at the moment. He was weak. Tucker let his eyes rove up and down, making no attempt to hide it like he normally did. When they settled back on Specs’ face he was met with an expression that was unbearably hard to read. The tables had turned. Now it was Tucker who was oblivious.

 

Specs let his adrenaline take over. That old familiar friend had pushed him across lines he would never dare cross without it many times in the past. Like the first time he stepped into an abandoned house, or the first time he actually lied to his parents. It was his transformative draught. It had been a while since he had anything to lose- at least in this. His life itself had been in question some hours before. It seemed a little foolish to be faint-hearted in light of that, but somehow this mattered more, because if he crossed a line tonight he would have to live with it. Well, que sera, sera.

 

“Tucker-”

 

“Do you hear that?” Tucker’s confused face suddenly wrinkled into a disturbed frown. He tilted his head like a hound dog listening for a sound. Specs deflated. He had just psyched himself up only to be interrupted. But then he heard it too. Drums.

 

“Oh christ.”

 

That song. It left them twitching like traumatized lab rats. Maybe it was nothing more than synchronicity insisting they heard it everywhere they went. But it seemed to play at the most uncanny moments, and quite often without a human operator. When they stepped into the living room they could see the light of Lorraine’s stereo glowing orange in the darkness. Everyone had gone to bed, but someone, someone with a taste for the oldies, had to have turned it on. They approached the stereo warily. 

 

“It’s just a coincidence.” Specs insisted, more for his own comfort.

 

“No. No, man. This song is following us.” Tucker looked reluctant to touch the stereo. To be fair, the last time he had tried to turn off a tape player it burst into flames, and this tape bore a disturbing resemblance to the previous one. White with an green label. He leaned forward and squinted at it. “Turn it off.”

 

“You do it.”

 

Tucker weighed the options, and finally decided touching the stereo was better than listening to it. He snapped the play button off, then lurched back like it bit him, waiting for the inevitable explosion. So far so good. He and Specs looked at each other, baffled, in the light of the window. Three years that song had haunted them in the strangest places. “Be My Baby” by the Ronettes could drop off the face of the planet and they’d be more than grateful. It had no explanation. Not even Specs wanted to pursue the mystery, either. It didn’t necessarily harm them. It was just another shadow in the corner of the eye to shake off. 

 

“Lorraine probably turned it on before she went upstairs.” Specs said with a wiggle of his glasses. 

 

“Yeah.” Tucker said absently. “Makes sense.”

 

Tucker decided to sleep on the sofa that pointed  _ away _ from the stereo, ostensibly offering Specs as a sacrifice, as their sofa beds stood back-to-back. They put their heads at opposing ends. Specs could see Tucker’s work inappropriate Wolverine socks sticking over the arm of his sofa. He had told him too many times not to wear those, but Tucker always found a way to slip in the last word.

 

“Hey, Kowalski?” Tucker’s sleepy voice traveled over the sofa.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Glad you’re not dead.”

 

“You too.” Specs smiled softly. God, he had the best friend. “And Tucker?”

 

“Mmm?” 

  
“I love you.” Specs let it out in one exhale. As easy as one breath. Tucker responded immediately with one long, rumbling snore. Specs rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a longer wait for the next chapter. I want it to be long and I want it to be good ;)


	24. Be My Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Specs and Tucker return home to face what comes next.

“Home sweet home.”

 

Tucker dumped his army surplus duffle onto the steps of Elise's porch. His porch. Poverty had a way of keeping his expectations low, but her will, on paper, signed, sealed and notarized, gave him more than he could have ever imagined: a home, fully paid for by Jack Rainier's tenure, a lifetime of assets in his name, even a timeshare in Eureka. She left them everything. Specs was named executor, of course. He had a mind for book keeping. And perhaps she knew -no, of course she did- that of the two of them, Specs would be able to dial in his emotions and get the job done. He took that mantle on with the same solemn long-suffering he took for all his responsibilities. Specs called all her old acquaintances. Specs arranged the funeral. Specs sorted her financial affairs. Tucker could barely manage the burden of feeling unworthy. His pride told him never to accept gifts. Everything he owned up until this point he had worked for. Every acquaintance's couch he slept on, every junker he upgraded and turned for a marginal profit- hard earned steps on the path to success, all by his own will and grit. Even when he moved in with Specs, and his success became _their_ success, he had the reassurance of knowing he pulled his own weight. But this? Prosperity on a silver platter. If it had been offered by anyone else he would turn it down out of principle, but knowing it was Elise's final wish was the only thing that could make him sign on the dotted line.

 

He looked over at Specs, still panting under the weight of the box Tucker made him carry. It had been three days since they closed the file on the Lamberts. They left abruptly and without circumstance. It seemed mutually understood that while they were appreciated, it would be awhile before anyone wanted to be reminded of what happened. So they went home. The following days were spent mostly in silence. Specs dealt with the lawyer, while Tucker tried to be helpful in little ways. He made sure there was food on the table. He tried not to make so much of a mess. Every once in awhile they would talk or give each other a reassuring smile, but for the most part they kept to their corners. Specs and Tucker both mourned best alone.

 

Specs didn't mean to wait so long to repeat his confession to Tucker, but peace seemed to be the order of the day, and a confession abjectly defied that. They could go through life changing events one at time, thank you very much. Not to mention it seemed tasteless. Best to wait until after the funeral. Tucker wasn't going anywhere, after all. They both knew, now more than ever, that they were staying together. Specs could still feel the possibility of what might come next bubbling just beneath the surface. If it couldn't be said, it could be felt: something about the air between them had shifted.

 

In the meantime, he had other worries to attend to. Specs and Tucker had their apartment packed in little time. The fact that they would move into Elise's house rather than sell it never came into question. It was a historical site. It needed to be tended to, curated, preserved. Specs had often wanted to spruce up Elise's dingy old house, but now, with the deed in his hands, he didn't want to change a single thing. Tucker filled the garage with his equipment. Specs adopted Jack's old study as his own. They tried to integrate their things as respectfully as possible, making trip after trip in the van, until they were left with what they held in their hands, staring up at the front porch.

 

“Still doesn’t feel real.” Specs muttered.

 

Tucker understood he meant all of it, not just the house. “Ye-up.” He said. “Five bedrooms, three baths, finished basement, and a man cave.”

 

“As you so quaintly put it. It’s called a den.”

 

“Den’s just another word for cave.”

 

“No.” Specs turned his attention back to the porch. “It’s weird. I mean, I used to sit out here with Elise all the time, talking. It doesn’t even feel like the same place anymore.”

 

“It’s missing it’s most important feature.” Tucker said. They dwelled on the thought a moment, heavy-hearted, neither making a move to go in. Somehow, crossing the threshold felt like stepping into a new stage of their lives. One without their mentor. Elise obviously believed in them enough to leave them everything, but Specs and Tucker wished they could linger just a while in arrested development, with her to guide them, with fewer responsibilities. Specs sighed.

 

“Well. Ready?” He asked.

 

“You gonna carry me across?” Tucker asked with a grin. Specs glared over the top of his glasses, Tucker’s box of random, mysteriously heavy objects still weighing in his arms. He had his hands full carrying Tucker metaphorically. He didn’t need to do it literally. “Alright. Put the daggers away, Steve. How about we race for what bedroom we want?”

 

“I’m sure we can come up with a more mature, democratic- oh come on!” Specs yelled. Tucker was already up the steps and through the screen door before he could protest further. So much for being adults. Of course, what more could he expect from the man who still licked the food he wanted to claim. The master bedroom was the clear favorite, with it’s fireplace, en suite bathroom, and balcony views. Imagining it strewn with Tucker’s dirty socks and science fair projects gave Specs anxiety. He huffed and balanced the box on his hip, stooping to pick up Tucker’s duffle bag in his other arm, before waddling inside to choose the second best bedroom.

 

“Don’t fall asleep.” He called up the stairs as he dumped Tucker’s belongings in the mud room. “We have to be at the cemetery in an hour.”

 

Specs ran his hand over the baluster, wiping away the dust. Strange to think it was all his now. Theirs, really. Talk about a big step in the relationship. Hardly had Specs admitted he loved the guy and they already owned a house together. Elise always had her subtle ways of influencing them, every suggestion gently nudging them closer together. She knew exactly what she was doing when she left them the house. Specs hung his head for moment. She wouldn’t get to see the fruits of her match-making.

 

Specs’ phone began to vibrate in his pocket. That little 4x2 harbinger of doom had been ringing for days. He pulled it out and frowned. Dad. He clicked decline, adding it to the other 27 missed calls. Specs always imagined the day he would climb out from beneath the burden of his parent's influence. He expected it to feel more triumphant than this. Of course, he didn't expect someone to have to die for it. But now here it was: his golden ticket. No strings attached. His parents had long bridled him with dependency, and suddenly, with a wave of a will holding hand, he could dismiss them. He hadn't gotten up the guts to do so yet. Ghosts? Easy. Demons? He would stand in front of one any day. Parents? So far he had sent each one of their increasingly desperate calls to voicemail. Specs justified it by convincing himself they didn't deserve an explanation, but in truth, he was fizzling them. A bad habit he used on previous liaisons, now turned on his own parents. Somehow he was sure they wouldn’t appreciate the irony.

 

Upstairs, Specs selected the quiet little guest room in the back of the house and began changing into his suit. The funeral was going to be small. Elise had touched many lives, but she kept her intimate friends to a small number. He hoped he could give those people an opportunity to pay their respects. Then, when all was said and done, he could think of his own needs.

 

Primary subject of this sentiment being Tucker. Specs found him standing in front of the bathroom mirror, growling in frustration as he tried to knot his one non-black tie. Specs had pre-knotted his work tie almost a year ago, and since then Tucker only ever needed to slip it on and off over his head. No one could tie a tie with the same amount of gratuitous detail as Specs. One of his many trivial talents.

 

“Stop. Let me.” Specs turned Tucker toward him by pulling the end of the tie. “You’re doing it wrong…”

 

“I don’t want to do this.” Tucker said after a minute of watching him quietly. Specs’ eyes flickered up from what he was doing, offering a brief look of sympathy.

 

“I’ll do all the talking. You don’t have to worry about it.”

 

“Not what I meant.”

 

“I know.” Specs muttered. He cinched the tie and stepped back to look at the finished product.

 

“How do I look?” Tucker asked, holding out his arms.

 

“Like… two kids stacked on top of each other in an oversized suit.”

 

“Top kid has some pretty sweet facial hair.”

 

Specs laughed and started dusting lint off Tucker’s barely used suit jacket, searching for the right words. “Do you… do you think she’s around? I mean, I want her- I want her to rest. God knows she worked hard enough. But do you think-”

 

“I think,” Tucker started. “It’s probably better not to wonder.”

 

“I can’t help it.”

 

“I know.” Tucker ruffled his hair. There was something warm and weary in his eyes. That something Specs noticed whenever Tucker’s guard was down. That something Tucker’s father seemed to hold too. That he should have to lose another mother was incomprehensibly unfair. All Specs could offer was his support. Something about how he couldn’t carry it for him, but could carry him. It would have to suffice. Little did Specs know how appreciated it was.

 

He made another concession on Tucker’s behalf by braving the back of his Kawasaki to the cemetery. It was no secret to them now that Jack Rainier's mysterious ventures made for a rather comfortable life, and his grave site was no exception to this. Elise would have the distinction of laying beside her husband approximately 3 rows south from one of the Marx brothers in Forest Lawn. Based on his invitations, Specs expected a small turnout of her best friends, including Carl and Lorraine, even Renai, but when he and Tucker climbed the hill to her shady plot, they were overwhelmed by what they saw. A group, a veritable crowd, of her friends and followers had already gathered around the site.

 

Word had apparently spread across Los Angeles. People whose lives Elise had touched, be it by readings or hauntings or any of her other kindnesses, had all assembled to pay respects. Specs froze on the top of the hill. If he hadn't already felt inadequate about giving a eulogy, he did now.

 

“Oh... ok, I can't do this.” He said matter-of-factly.

 

Tucker crossed his arms and waited. “We can stay up here all day. It's fine with me.”

 

“Yeah, good... no, no I have to do this.”

 

“Then let’s go.”

 

“Wait.” Specs grabbed Tucker's sleeve to keep him from walking on. “What do I even say? I mean her life... and she meant so much to these people, how can I possibly....”

 

“Just do it like you practiced.” Tucker said. Specs had written the eulogy in a single frantic draft not three hours after they left the Lambert's house, and he'd been muttering it under his breath in every quiet moment since. Tucker knew he was beating himself up over it. And to be perfectly fair, he had a rather impossible task to complete. No speech could encompass the impact of Elise Rainier. But Specs could probably come closer than anyone else. Specs could at least pluck up the courage to do it despite himself.

 

“It's not good enough.” He groaned.

 

“Elise wouldn't care.”

 

Specs sighed. “No, you're right.”

 

“Of course I am.” Tucker managed a smile. “Seriously, it's fine. Maybe.”

 

“ _Maybe_?” A fresh layer of anxiety flushed to Specs' face.

 

“You might want to trim the literary references a bit. None of these people care about Aldous Huxley. It's... not even relevant.” Tucker said as they began walking toward the crowd.

 

“It's relevant. Maybe not _salient_.”

 

“And don't use words like salient. No one talks like that.”

 

“I do...”

 

Tucker had once been able to work a room. Charming smile here, witty banter there, everyone in the palm of his hand everywhere. It was seemingly incongruous with his more off-putting personality traits, like his inability to judge food etiquette and appropriate lengths of eye contact, but even these things he could cover well with a dash of good ol' boy Oklahoma charm. Specs had systematically dismantled that though. Brick by brick he laid bare the needy side. Tucker, by his own humble estimation, was still as clever as ever, but now he stood in the last bastions of his old persona. He had neither the energy nor the desire to pretend to be anything he wasn't. And what he was at the funeral was tired, and sad, and very thankful that Specs still had something to give, so he could wait in the wings, standing just outside the crowd.

 

Specs worked his way from person to person, thanking them for coming, shaking hands. His anxiety was evident, his pacing awkward. He had become no more gregarious in the last few years. But his sense of duty was overshadowing his insecurities a bit more with every day. He made his way to the grave, where the plot and the casket and the priest he arranged for were all assembled. Seeing the casket struck him with another wave of grief. There had never been any going back, but it only felt that way now. Specs could just about hear Elise's voice in his head, reminding him to breath, just like when they did yoga.

 

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat. The crowd buzzed with people sharing their stories about Elise. That in its own right was a fitting tribute to her. But he needed their attention, because he only had so much adrenaline to run on. “Excuse me, everyone. If I could-”

 

Specs heard a sharp whistle at his side. Everyone looked up. Tucker had walked up beside him and called attention. He nodded to the crowd. “Go ahead.”

 

Specs signed ‘thank you’ to him, then looked forward.

 

“This- I won’t be long. I want to thank you all for being here.” He began. “Wow, it’s uh… more than I expected. But it just goes to show how important Elise was to everyone. For those of you who don’t know us, Tucker and I, we worked with Elise, and um- she was sort of like the mother we wished we had. Somehow she managed to take two amatur paranormal investigators and make us something a little more, by showing us why… why what we did was important. Everyone here is a testament to that.”

 

“It’s uh, it’s kind of appropriate that she’ll be here, at Forest Lawn. Surrounded by celebrities. She was a celebrity to those of us in the paranormal world. But, well, unlike those celebrities, she had an impact on Los Angeles that, honestly, most people will never really know about or understand. But, you all, everyone here, we knew.”

 

“The auteur,” Specs could practically feel Tucker shaking his head at the word. “...the _mind_ behind Forest Lawn, Hubert Eaton, he wanted to create a memorial park that was bright and beautiful. He said it would be different than other cemeteries, ‘as sunshine is to darkness, as eternal life is unlike death.’ That’s pretty fitting for Elise. She spent most of her life surrounded by death. So much so you can’t talk about her life without mentioning it. But she was like that sunshine in the darkness. She somehow managed to be cheerful and funny and patient despite all the darkness she fought. She understood how to enjoy the life she had. We’ll remember her for everything she knew about life after death. We’ll remember how she protected the innocent. That’s, that’s obvious. But I think the reason we’re all here today is because of who she was in the light. She didn’t just save people, she gave them hope, and… and we can still hold on to that hope, even now that she’s gone.The best way to show how much we appreciated her is to try to be more like her.” He had picked up volume and confidence as he spoke, gradually ad libbing more, until he was speaking exclusively from the heart. He paused briefly, weighing his own words. “I know I’ll try.”

 

Specs spent the next hour fielding conversations in the crowd. Tucker held vigil at Elise’s grave. He needed a moment for final goodbyes. Every so often he checked over his shoulder to see the crowd thinning, Specs, most patient of ushers, seeing them out. Tucker watched him have the inevitable ‘how are you, sorry we’re the reason your friend is dead’ conversation with Lorraine and Renai- the rest of the Lamberts would never have a clue Elise even existed, thanks to Carl’s efforts. Going through the worst time in their lives together gave him and Specs that much more of cosmic attachment to the Lamberts though. No matter what came next, that would always be the big case. Tucker only realized he was still watching when Specs finally noticed him. He gave a sad smile just long enough that everyone else turned to look, just to find out who Specs was so moved to see.

 

A while later Tucker felt an arm around his back, offering a comforting rub. He smiled down at Specs. They could go, if they wanted to, but neither moved. Tucker put his arm around Specs and pulled him against his side. Specs rested on his shoulder. They said their goodbyes in silence.

* * *

 

“Movie night?”

 

It was indeed movie night, though the day had hardly respected their usual routine. Specs almost couldn't remember the last time they actually sat down to relax. It felt proper, somehow, to carry on their old habits in the same spirit. Elise would want nothing different. Tucker had been poking around in her video archives since they got home from the funeral. When he came upstairs carrying a crate full of their home videos, Specs answered by popping the popcorn.

 

“One beer for you,” Tucker cracked a PBR as he walked over from the kitchen and placed it in Specs’ hands. He produced two more cans from under his other arm. “Two beer for me.”

 

“Why do you assume I only want one?” Specs squinted.

 

Tucker plopped in front of the sofa, where he began sifting through the box of videos. “Why does baby bear get less porridge?”

 

“He doesn’t, it’s just the correct temperature…”

 

“Eh, whatever.”

 

“It’s not whatever, it’s, the entire analogy is based on it.”

 

“Let papa bear enjoy his beers.” Tucker grinned back over his shoulder.

 

“Please don’t call yourself that.” Specs said with a prim little adjustment of his glasses. “In fact, let's not refer to ourselves as anything.”

 

“Because ‘Specs’ is your christian name.”

 

“Not equivalent.”

 

Tucker ignored him. He already won in his head. Instead, he selected their first tape and plugged it in. Halloween, 2006. He heard an immediate snort from Specs behind him. Apparently Tucker’s Mad Max costume hadn’t gotten any less funny since last year. On screen, Tucker tried to take his camera back from Specs, who filmed and teased him while he got ready for Elise’s Halloween party. The twerp never had any place making fun. Tucker committed to Halloween. Specs only ever played it safe. Pirate. Scarecrow. Cat. Things only toddlers and slutty women dressed as, according to Tucker.

 

Tucker climbed up on the sofa next to Specs, beer in each hand, and lifted both cans in the air. “Cheers. To Elise, for kicking ass.”

 

“Cheers.” Specs said, clinking cans. The funeral had been one thing. An honor to who she was to the outside world. This would be their honor to who she was with them, behind closed doors.

 

Specs and Tucker watched the home videos quietly for a while, never settling on one emotion as they reviewed their trip to Redwood, Christmas morning, and Tucker’s most recent birthday. They smiled when they watched the video of their last camping trip. It was mostly a montage of Tucker sleeping -in the hammock, in the tent, in the canoe- overlaid with commentary from Elise and Specs.

 

“What the hell, dude?” Tucker glared at Specs when the video cut to them balancing miscellaneous camping supplies on his head while he snoozed in front of the fire.

 

“Oh we used to do that all the time.”

 

The crate gave them two and half hours of material, every memory of the best times with Elise literally playing out in front of them. Grief took strange new forms, at turns smothering and sharp, punctuated every so often by a bittersweet memory. The chaos of their week finally began to settle into the ache that would no doubt be there for a long time. Neither one of them emotionally savvy, Specs and Tucker kept quiet. At this point they barely needed to speak to communicate anyway. They only did it for sport. What they thought could be felt.

 

“What’s this?” Tucker asked when he pulled out the last tape. He turned it in his hands, looking for a label.

 

“Not mine.” Specs said on his own inspection.

 

Tucker shrugged and put it in the tape player. “Only one way to find out. Might be porn, might be _Kojak_. Might be both.”

 

Specs, one of Tucker’s favorite shades of embarrassed red, was about to explain why such a crossover was unlikely when the video flickered on. At first it was nothing more than a shot of the chair in Jack’s study. The camera focused in and out a few times before Elise walked into frame and sat down.

 

“Hi boys.” She began. Tucker felt Specs put a hand on his shoulder, either to give support or ask for it.“This won’t be easy. If you’re watching this, I am no longer among the living. I knew I needed to make this video the very moment we received a call from Josh Lambert. I’ve told you boys many times that there is a spirit that has followed me, threatened to kill me. That spirit is the one that haunted Josh Lambert as a boy. She has followed me since that day, getting closer to exterminating what she perceives as my threat to her power. I have no doubt that if I choose to help the Lamberts she will have no better opportunity to finally kill me.”

 

“I know what agreeing to help them means. I can’t say I’m not afraid. There was a time when I would have hidden, denied them and anyone else help in fear for my own life. Then I met two people who reminded me that my place is between evil and the innocent. People that taught me how to help others at great cost and no personal gain, simply because it was the right thing to do.”

 

Specs and Tucker looked at each other as if to ask if they were both hearing correctly. Of course she knew what was to come, but to have the prescience to make one final speech- for her to prioritize them struck directly at the core of what had been bothering them all day: they weren’t worthy. Of her possessions, of her patience, of her love. And yet here she was, in her final moments, making sure they knew precisely how worth it she thought they were. In some stubborn way, neither wanted to admit she could be right.

 

“When I first met you boys I was in… a dark place. Then I saw you two at Quinn Brenner’s home. You had no reason to be there. You didn’t know what the spirit attacking her was or the danger it presented to you. But those people asked for your help, so there you were, with nothing but your minds and your gadgets. And there I was, with a gift to see into the Further, and some power to fight it, and I couldn’t even muster the courage to help. Your display of courage and selflessness that night inspired me to rethink what I had become. Without the two of you,” She paused and looked down, collecting her thoughts. “…I don’t that I ever would have recovered. You’ve given me so much to live for. These past few years getting to know you have been wonderful, full of life and love- I never thought I could feel that way again. I- it’s not every day that we get to plan our final words, but even with this tape I don’t think I’ll be able to sum up everything I want to say to both of you. I’ll certainly give it a try.”

 

“Steven you are... one of the most dedicated individuals I have ever met.” Specs looked up at his name. Tucker could see him grimace in an attempt to hold it in, but his eyes were already glassy. “What you worry is obsession I see as an incredible passion for the things you believe in. You think that passion alienates you from everyone else. I can tell you’re afraid that you’re not connecting with people in a meaningful way because of it. But I think you connect with people in one of the most meaningful ways of all: you show a genuine compassion for the people around you. That’s significant- that kind of compassion gives people hope, and it motivates you to an almost impossible level of bravery. I’ve seen you, time and again, rushing to help people in the face of some seriously scary stuff. You never hesitate. You see innocent people in danger, and you stand in front of them. You’re not the shy, scared boy you remember when you look in the mirror. You don’t let demons push you around- well,” She giggled a bit. “they seem to push you around quite a bit, but you stand to face them- and yet you let other people push you around. Yes, I’m looking at you Tucker.” She smiled before seeming to be lost in thought for a moment. “You’re stronger than you realize. I’m going to miss our early morning walks where we talked about the mysteries of the beyond. Don’t lose that passion, and don’t keep it all to yourself. It’s part of what makes you the incredible person you are.”

 

“And Tucker. Oh Tucker. My buddy.” Tucker looked like he was about to jump off the couch and run away, but he stayed, perched on the edge of his seat with his forehead in his hands. “Full of opinions, confident. Always trying to keep it together. And you do. I want you to know, though, that you don’t have to be distant to be strong. You don’t have to pretend to be anything, especially not with us. Because I can tell you’re trying to keep everything packed away. You may think it’s safer that way. If no one can get close, they can’t hurt you. If you never give them your trust, they can’t break it. But I want you to look at me now. I want you to listen to what I’m saying,” Tucker looked up from his hands. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. You’re not responsible for the choices of the people who disappointed you. Don’t let those choices keep you from seeing how much we love you. Because we do, and we’re not going anywhere. I know for a fact you have a friend sitting by your side who will never let you down. I can say that in confidence.”

 

“I’ve seen you both grow into two wonderful young men. I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it -my god, I’m haunting you from the grave to say it for the millionth time- but for goodness sake try not to argue so much. Either way… I know you’ll take care of each other. I’ve never met two people who needed to be together the same way you do. I’m happy to have been part of your world. Though I may not be sitting there with you, I want both of you, Steven, Tucker, to understand this: I’m always with you, and I always have been. Take a closer look in the box where you found this video. There is something for you. A little reminder that I will always be around when you need me.” Neither even glanced down. They stared at the screen while Elise paused. She took a big, shaky sigh and wiped away a tear. “I don’t want to say goodbye, so I’ll just say I love you.”

 

Specs and Tucker sat in a silence for a while after the tape ended. Specs wanted very much to say something, or reach out and make sure Tucker was ok, but Tucker looked in no way ready to talk. They had already been mourning. They got through the initial shock, the quest for answers, even the funeral. All the while, Elise had felt out of reach, enigmatic. Her final words gave them a sense of intimacy they hadn’t felt since she passed, like one more precious moment they never thought they’d be lucky enough to have. It was a small comfort, as it would never be the real thing, but the effort alone, and her words- overwhelming didn’t quite cover the feeling.

 

Specs finally leaned over to search for whatever Elise had left them in the box. He moved slowly, almost as if Tucker were a sleeping animal he didn’t want to disrupt. Nestled in with a few blank tapes and empty jewel cases he found a small cassette. It was a blank, the kind he remembered using to tediously record his favorite NPR broadcasts off the radio as a boy. Inside the case was a small, handwritten cover:

 

‘Road Trip 87.’ Just a few of your favorites. No, I still don’t like this stuff. Yes, I’ll listen to it anyway. Love, Jack.’

 

He peeled off his glasses and squinted at the tape. Specs didn’t question whether it was what Elise wanted them to find. Some premonition, an eerie sense of deja vu, insisted it was important. Tucker finally got curious enough to look up.

 

“What is it?” He said, his voice haggard. He still hadn’t shaken off the impression of existential confusion Elise’s words left on him. Specs answered by opening the cassette case. The tape inside bore a green label, and songs were written on both sides. Tucker held his hand out demandingly. “Give it to me.”

 

Specs leaned over him while they read the label together.

 

Side A

Just Seven Numbers

I Can Hear Music

Leavin’ Here

Let’s Stay Together

You Keep Me Hangin’ On

A Thing of the Past

No One Ever Tells You

He’s All I Got

Voice of Experience

Shop Around

I’m Still Waiting

Heat Wave

 

Side B

 

Stand by Me

Ain’t No Sunshine

Just My Imagination

Higher Ground

Don’t Look Any Further

Neither One of Us

Put Your Head On My SHoulder

What You Don’t KNow

Oh What a Night

It’s the Same Old Song

Be My Baby

 

Tucker was just about to ask why Elise wanted them to have a tape full of music he hated when they reached the final track. That song. That godforsaken, tormenting song followed them everywhere. Memories went by like doppler: the van tape deck, the Centennial… the humming. Epiphany reached them both simultaneously.

 

“The song.” Specs, of course, was the first to say it. “Tucker, she said- and then. This is the song that played when we heard that woman’s voice the night we met. We hear it everywhere. It’s- it’s Elise. When she’s near. This, this is what she’s trying to tell us. The Further exists beyond time, so now that she’s there- she’s been able to go back. She was the one that protected us that night. She’s been looking out for us,” The excitement of a fascinating discovery succumbed to the powerful realization of its full implication. Elise had followed them like a guardian since before they even met her. As if they didn’t feel undeserving enough of her love. Specs’ voice wavered as he went on, “She said she’s always been with us. Tucker, that voice in my room when I was a kid.  And the spirit who followed you for years.”

 

Specs expected Tucker to be as moved. He expected him to be as excited about their unprecedented paranormal discovery. But both color and emotion had drained from Tucker’s face. The only thing left was a faint malaise. Tucker put the tape back in Specs’ hand.

 

“Going to bed.” He said unceremoniously.

 

Specs barely caught up with the announcement  before Tucker had hopped off the couch and made for the stairs. “Wait. Tucker, this is a really big deal. I need to talk-”

 

“No.” Tucker disappeared upstairs.

 

Specs sunk back into the couch and let the suffocating weight of the last ten minutes sink in. He had never considered himself a very emotional person. Anxious, perhaps, sensitive to the struggles of others, absolutely, but his own internal feelings? They needed to be understood through the filter of some academic study, deconstructed, quantified, depersonalized to the point of abstraction. Hopes and dreams were cloaked in Dostoyevsky quotes, insecurities in recently published articles from the APA. What he was feeling now could not be broken down into intellectual inquiry, however. It was all hitting too hard and too fast to rationalize. He was humbled by Elise, ecstatic that she was still somewhere near, that no, she hadn’t forgotten them, and yet it would never be like it was. He was confused as to why Tucker didn’t seem to feel the same way, and angry that he walked away, but all the same gripped by compulsion to comfort him, because he loved the fucking idiot. All these feelings came together to create the perfect storm of anxiety attacks.

 

His phone began to rattle on the coffee table. Dad. As if things could be more stressful. Specs stared at it for a second. He could tell his parents off and they would probably deserve it, but what he was afraid of, what he had been avoiding for days, wasn’t the fact that he would disappoint them. It wasn’t his mother’s crying or his father’s yelling. It was the simple fear that his parents didn’t love him enough to look past it. They had decided the terms. They had decided their limits. He didn’t want to lose them, but he had someone else to worry about now.

 

Just as it came, it went. One minute Specs was clamoring for the closest bag-shaped object to breath into, the next he settled. A certain steely resolve grew on his face. He always _knew_ he was brave, and defiant, and in charge of his own life, but suddenly, as if struck clean out of heaven, he believed it. Elise was always right, after all. Perhaps it was because she was somewhere near that a sense of calm washed over him. He knew exactly what he wanted. Specs picked up the phone.

 

“Hey dad, I’m gay. I’ll call you back later.”

 

About all the consideration that needed at the moment. He needed to run after his gut instincts before the mind-melting anxiety of what he just did caught up with him. On to the next thing. Specs tossed his phone back down and made for the stairs. What he intended to do wasn’t a fully formed thought. He had lots of vague ideas, concocted in the dark of the night during his lonely hours, and plenty of biological stimulus. Where he might normally pre-plan everything he wanted to say, instead Specs went upstairs before the verbal part of his brain could have any input. He stood in front of the master bedroom door.

 

“Tucker? I need to talk to you.” He gave a short rap on the door. No reply. It occurred to him Tucker might already be asleep. He’d gone down faster than that before. But Specs couldn’t put an entire night of overthinking things between them now. With little choice, Specs went in and swung the door closed.

 

He regretted it almost immediately. Tucker was out on the balcony, leaning against the rail, his shoulders trembling as he cried. It was quiet, restrained, but still unlike anything Specs had seen out of him before. Of course he wasn’t asleep. Of course he wanted to be alone. For a moment Specs wavered between staying and trying to slip out, to preserve what little bit of privacy Tucker had clearly wanted, but the door he had shut so resolutely behind him, antique and noisy as it was, clicked loudly when the latch hit the strike plate. Tucker looked back from the shadows.

 

“Oh, hey. What…” He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand, very deliberately setting himself aside. Specs hated to see him do that. “Do you need something?”

 

Specs wanted to apologize for intruding, to excuse himself and go.

 

“Are you okay?” He asked instead. Stupid. Obviously not, and this wasn’t helping. But Tucker, after one of his signature uncomfortable stares, gestured him over and looked back out over the balcony. Specs approached him slowly, unsure of what to do. He had comforted Tucker in those nightmarish minutes after they found Elise dead. In the horror of it all he knew exactly what to say. This was different. This was subdued and personal. Something else entirely. Something he’d only seen traces of in the quiet corners of the Ockley homestead.

 

Tucker stared forward and didn’t speak for a while. Specs remembered his instructions from the last time: be quiet, be present, wait for him to speak first. Whatever animal passion had propelled Specs up the stairs was doused with bucket of embarrassment, succeeded by an emotion he was well acquainted with: pity. Only this pity didn’t feel like the pity that led him into dark, scary places- the kind motivated by basic human empathy. This was feeling exactly what another person felt. And it did not feel good.

 

Tucker didn’t know how to begin. He thought he had reached the point of fully trusting Specs, but there was still some to give, one last card in his hand. He’d broken all his rules and made his exceptions for Steven ‘Specs’ Kowalski, the pedantic little shit he met online. Yet somehow so far he’d managed to flinch back just in time, every time, when he needed to protect himself from that seemingly inevitable heartbreak. Specs eagerly and innocently wore him down. Now he had to pay his dues.

 

“So it was Elise.” He started.

 

“Yeah.” Specs couldn’t be sure what he meant. Had it been the profundity of her gesture that made him cry?

 

“Of course it was. I just-” Tucker struggled to keep his voice guarded. “I just thought was her.”

 

Specs narrowed his brow, confused. The thought stewed for a minute before he fully understood: ‘her’ wasn’t referring to Elise. “Oh god, Tucker. I’m sorry.”

 

He put his hand on Tucker’s arm, hoping to convey the sincerity he felt -he so frequently sounded condescending when he didn’t mean to be.

 

“Thought she’d make up for lost time. Thought maybe she regrets-” Tucker shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

 

“It does matter.”

 

Tucker’s hand squeezed into a fist, then he took one long, heaving sigh and released it. Specs meant well. He always meant well, even at his worst. “It doesn’t. Nothing’s gonna change. She’s gone anyway.”

 

Specs for once could see how to avoid condescension. There was no point in sentimentality or greeting card well wishes. No telling Tucker she probably loved him anyway. All those years he thought his mother was watching over him, only to find she wanted no more to do with him in death than in life. That was the simple fact of it. Somehow Specs had yet to make the connection, but as the depressing theme of parental abandonment set in between them, he felt the first true, full-faced acknowledgment of just how similar their situations were. They had both been holding onto the same hope.

 

Specs could see Tucker struggling to maintain a scowl. He had a quiet, dignified way of crying, but that made it no less heartbreaking.

 

“They’re supposed to want us.” Tucker said, barely above a whisper.

 

“Yeah. Yeah they are.”

 

Tucker looked over out of the side of his eye. Specs got it. Specs, oblivious as he was, got a lot more than Tucker gave him credit for. They were in this together. Same boat, same fish to fry. Same losses. They had invested so much into their relationship, needed so much of the same thing from each other. Specs had no idea how difficult he made it, but Tucker stayed, at first out of necessity, then intrigue, and finally out of strange sense of righteousness. He'd never abandon anyone like that.

 

“Come here.” Tucker didn't ask, he ordered. Specs didn't argue. He let Tucker pull him into a hug- a proper one. They rarely hugged. Hugs were for comings and goings, and since they were never apart, it had never been necessary. Not to mention (and they never did mention) what sort of thoughts it might lead to. They weren't very good at it, neither coming from a hugging family, and both with their own intimacy issues; but they approached it the same way they did everything, stubbornly giving it their best.

 

Tucker took some time to relax, still tense from holding it in, but eventually he sank into his arms. He held one hand around the back of Specs' head, pulling him against his shoulder. Specs could feel Tucker's hitched breathing begin to soften. They held on quietly for a while. Regret over things they couldn't control stuck like a fog. It wasn't in their power, nor part of their responsibility, to make it go away, but it drove them together looking for release. Funny how grief and passion had a way of coinciding.

 

With a gentle pull, the atmosphere shifted. Specs shivered. They were on the cusp of October, on the first night to dip under 16C. Tucker pulled him closer- to keep him warm, nothing more- but he could feel every inch of Specs’ body language change. He slid his hands down, holding Tucker above the waist, and lifted his head just enough that Tucker could feel his breath on his neck. Tucker closed his eyes. He had so much self-control. He prided himself on it. Specs never made it easy, looking like that, teasing him unintentionally. But now? Tucker still tried to convince himself Specs had no idea what he was doing, even when he felt Specs nuzzle into his jawline. Even when Specs brought a hand up to the side of Tucker’s face and wiped away the mess of hair. Even when, glasses crooked in his awkward attempt, Specs pulled back and kissed him, so gently that they barely touched.

 

It was short, not at all presumptuous, like a first kiss stolen in the back corners of a schoolyard. And for Specs it might as well be. It would certainly be the first time he did it to express affection. He fell to every cliche too: flushed, light-headed, sweaty palms and weak knees. Specs didn’t dare check to see Tucker’s reaction. He waited, just long enough to wonder if he hadn’t, in fact, deluded himself into imagining all of it. It would hardly be the first time.

 

Tucker had self-control, but only to a degree, and good god, he’d done his time waiting. That still, small voice reminded him it would all come crashing down; that Specs didn’t want him, just _this_ , and he’d let him down, but he would be so _nice_ about it. Because he always was. And Tucker would, of course, shrug it off, keep things light -he knew those lines by heart- but things would never be the same. Couldn’t he have just a minute to enjoy it?

 

He tried. He kissed back, begging his mind to turn off for even just a second so he could enjoy what he waited for so long. Specs opened his eyes in surprise. He’d never been wanted back. Not really. But even as Tucker guided him, tip to toe, against the railing and deepened the kiss, Specs felt like he was holding back, hiding something. He tried to run his hand affectionately through Tucker’s hair, but he leaned away. Tucker insisted on keeping it focused, and it was obvious he was a good kisser, but something wasn’t right.

 

“A-are you ok?” Specs asked as he broke away. Tucker didn’t look at all happy. Specs knew he would mess it up. He just didn’t expect to do it so quickly.

 

“Of course.” Tucker insisted. He tried to kiss Specs again, but Specs held him back by the shoulder, demanding eye contact. His look said everything. Specs knew something was wrong, and he probably thought it was his fault too. Tucker couldn’t leave him believing that. Not even if it meant laying it all on the line. He could hardly explain through the lump in his throat, “I know you’re a little slow on the uptake, Kowalski, but you gotta know by now. If this is all you want, I can’t. I really can’t.”

 

Specs took that one square in the gut. Tucker thought he might leave him. It was appalling, honestly, to see Tucker look at him like that, asking him with broken eyes not to hurt him, afraid he’d lose something else. Specs wanted to comfort him faster than he could speak. “I would never do that to you. I’ve- I’ve been trying so hard not to lead you on. You’re my best friend-”

 

“Please don’t-” Tucker flinched at the words ‘best friend,’ as if that was all they were.

 

“I’m just thinking… I mean who are we kidding, right? This thing’s only going one way. And I’ve thought about this a lot, I really have. I want to be with you. I want to do this forever. Even if we never get anywhere, and we die as nobodies who never did anything. That’s fine. I just want to be with you. I’m in love with you. And I don’t mean friend love you. Not that, I mean, I do that too, but I’m talking about the other thing. I don’t want you to think I would ever leave like that, because I wouldn’t. I would- I would,”

 

“Hey-”

 

“I would do anything to make sure you don’t think that-”

 

“Shut up.”

 

“Hey, I’m spilling my guts here and you’re not even _listening_ to me.”

 

“Say it again.”

 

“Wha- which part?” Specs put his hands on his hips defensively. Tucker’s demeanor had changed entirely. He still had tears in his eyes, but his face had morphed into smirk, and what fear had been there was replaced with a look of disbelief. Apparently watching Specs reveal his deepest feelings was some sort of sport for him. “Did I say something _funny_?”

 

Well, Tucker did laugh. It was utterly cathartic. A bit dizzying, too. Three years of  sidelong glances, convincing himself he would go to the grave a more handsome Cyrano. Relief hit him like a high. It was all he could do to stay on his feet, so he settled for leaning on the railing, arms around Specs, and going in for another kiss. One that counted. Specs hummed in surprise. God that was nice. He forgot why he was mad, or had he been sad? It didn’t matter. Tucker kissed the same way he did everything. There was obvious natural talent, though his application was sloppy, but only because that was exactly how he wanted it to be. Specs could feel him still smirking against his lips.  

 

“What’s so funny?” Specs asked, drawing back just far enough to speak, a little out of breath.

 

“Say it again.” Tucker repeated. Still bossy, apparently. Specs flushed warm and red. It was a bit embarrassing, saying it on command, but that was probably what Tucker wanted.

 

“I’m in love with you.”

 

“Good. Me too.”

 

“Wait. With me or with you?” Specs asked, a confused little quirk in his eyebrow, but Tucker ignored him with a grin and kissed him again. The answer could be inferred. In the meantime, Tucker had found the antidote to all the chatter. He worked his way down and began to kiss along Specs’ jaw. There was the good spot. Specs immediately melted into him, running his hands up Tucker’s chest and pulling him closer by the collar. A win-win for both of them, because Tucker sort of had a thing about a good jawline. Not that it would take much to get either going. It had been a while. That fact made it all the better, though.

 

Taking it slow didn’t occur to them. The last three years counted as foreplay enough, after all, and that combined with their otherwise nonexistent love lives made for a quick escalation. Tucker let his hands roam, unsure where to start, moving from one place to another as the fancy struck him. He tugged at Specs’ collar, pulling it out of the way to kiss his collarbone, then up his neck, his adam’s apple, his chin- he’d thought about them all plenty. Specs took a slightly more measured approach, his perfectionism offering some obvious benefits. Fastidious and detailed, he paid attention to every subtle part of the process with great care to present a flawless technique, but even he couldn’t resist indulging in a few long held desires, like lifting Tucker’s shirt a little in the back and running his fingers over the Venus dimples he liked so much. It wasn’t until Specs leaned forward, grinding their hips together and startling a moan out of Tucker, that they both became conscious of where things were going.

 

Tucker pulled back for air. They both dissolved into embarrassed smiles, holding each other nose to nose, laughing nervously. It was strange -incredible, but strange- to suddenly shift their tone, to be so close. It felt natural, like a missing piece of their dynamic had settled into place.

 

“You wanna mess around?” Tucker asked, nuzzling into Specs’ neck.

 

“I...nnn… yeah.” Specs murmured. For some reason, Tucker had assumed it would be his job to seduce Specs, but when Specs slid his hand up, weaving his fingers through the hair at the nape of Tucker's neck, and began gently steering him back inside, it quickly became clear who thought he was in charge. Tucker didn't question it. He let Specs lead him to the bed, where he hovered for a moment, indulging in another long kiss while he tugged at the hem of Tucker's shirt. “Can I?” He asked.

 

Tucker nodded and let Specs pull his shirt off over his head. He took one long look. Tucker always teased him, going around the house like that. Now he could touch. He hardly knew what to do with himself, but the rest of his body had some ideas, even if his brain did not. Specs continued to approach things with the same sweet mixture of gentle concern and eager passion. He asked permission, ever polite, before he guided Tucker back onto the bed, before he climbed on top of him, before he kissed any lower than his shoulders. Eventually Tucker had to assure him everything was fair game.

 

At first they were content to keep making out. They had spent many nights, walls between them, laying alone fantasizing about each other, often at the same time without realizing it. Fantasy was always idealized, but the reality was so much better. They were clumsy, neither of them extremely experienced, and what experience they had was rusty. Specs apologized a few times for a knee or an elbow in the wrong place. Eventually they hit a rhythm though, and any self-consciousness melted away. Their movements became more intense. Tucker sat up, Specs straddling him, and pulled his shirt off. Specs slid his arm under Tucker and lifted him further back on the bed, proving he was stronger than he looked. The rest of their clothes came off in more of a frantic hurry.

 

“Do you...mmm.” Tucker groaned. Specs continued to focus on what would no doubt be a love bite by morning. He could feel the vibration of Tucker’s deep moans with his lips pressed against his neck. Tucker wrapped his legs behind Specs, a subtle suggestion of what he was trying to ask. “Do you wanna.. _.Kowalski_.”

 

Specs looked up, glasses crooked and hair ruffled. “Hmm? Yes. Do you...?”

 

“Yeah. Drawer.”

 

Tucker had apparently made his various _accoutrements_ third on the priority list while unpacking, after clothes and cameras. Three years of veritable celibacy had a way of making a man very familiar with himself. The small pack of condoms had been waiting for a rainy day for a while now, alone, ignored, taunting him. Tucker wasn’t expecting any action, but someone told him to always be prepared, so there they were. Specs responded with his signature look: the strange blend of anxiety and excitement as his two natures warred against each other. Sex with someone he loved was an equally wonderful and terrifying prospect. Horniness, of course, won the day, but it didn’t help him steady his hands while he tried to open the condom wrapper.

 

“Sorry.” Specs blushed.

 

“Let me.” Tucker took the wrapper and ripped it open with his teeth.

 

“That’s cute.” Specs rolled his eyes.

 

Tucker pulled off his glasses, the last thing he was wearing, and winked. “I know.”

 

“You want me to wear it, right?”

 

“That’s the plan. That ok?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Take it easy.”

 

“Of course.”

 

Specs proceeded patiently, waiting until they were warmed up, with Tucker every so often reminding him that the noises he was making were of satisfaction, not discomfort. His playful flirtations began to fade into something more intent when Specs connected with his sweet spot. Specs never thought he was much to look at, but Tucker looked at him like he was perfect. That alone felt good, obvious physical pleasures aside: the king of criticism suddenly becoming all ‘thank you’s and ‘yes, please’s and compliments. It took getting laid to tame that ego. Tucker was still a show-off, his need to be the center attention affecting every aspect of his life, but Specs preferred prioritizing him anyway. As they found their groove, Specs kissed him on the shoulders and down his arms, slid his hands under Tucker's hips and angled him closer, enjoyed every look of shocked pleasure he induced.

 

Every so often Specs would come to a shuddering pause, a faraway look in his eye as he tried to get himself back under control. He couldn’t exactly promise a marathon. Judging by Tucker’s expression, he wasn’t expecting one either. It was short, breathless, nothing theatrical. After holding out so long it couldn’t really be anything else. They alternated between bouts of mindless movement and ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ clarity until Specs became vaguely aware of the lamp on the nightstand falling over, and Tucker, digging the nails of his free hand into the back of Specs’ neck, said ‘I love you” and a few less romantic curse words before climaxing- loudly. Specs couldn’t and didn’t stop himself from following, though he had a slightly more composed look of satisfaction when he threw his head back.

 

Tucker felt the next few seconds pass in bullet time. He appreciated the lean definition in his partner’s arms, the sweat of hard work that beaded down Specs’ face and dripped off the tips of his hair. Specs hovered over him, eyes closed, regaining his breath and composure, until Tucker lifted off the pillow and kissed him. He was awarded a smile when Specs opened his eyes.

 

“I’m so out of shape.” Specs said with a tired laugh.

 

“You’re telling me.” This was the moment that mattered. The build up, the sex, the release- all of it could be explained away. They were needy, still in mourning, starved for affection. Pillow talk was the true test. It would decide exactly what and how they were supposed to be.

 

At first it was quiet, a bit shy. Specs climbed off of Tucker, graciously found him some tissues, then chastised him to put them in the garbage, not on the floor. Tucker worried he might not get back into bed, but he did, climbing under the covers to show his commitment. Specs was pleased when Tucker rolled onto his side and rested his head on the same pillow.

 

“You know, if you wanted this room so bad, you didn’t have to screw me for it.” Tucker said.

 

“I play the long con.”

 

“The view is pretty good.” Tucker said. Specs nodded and looked out to the balcony. Double entendre still wasn’t a strength of his. Tucker waited for him to say anything else.

 

“Why haven’t we already been doing this?” He finally asked. They both answered the question in their head. A plethora of things. At first it seemed ridiculous, thinking about how much time they might have wasted out of stubbornness and missed signals. Their mutual attraction seemed obvious in retrospect. But as they worked their way back through all the possible occasions they could have gotten together, each one had a good reason it didn’t work. Had it started too soon, Tucker realized, he might have bolted. Had Tucker pushed too fast, Specs might have felt too pressured. They were starting now with a pretty rock solid foundation- one that had taken time and maturity to build. After this introspection, Tucker decided to argue the point anyway.

 

“I _tried_.”

 

“How?”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Tucker propped his chin up on his hand. “I’ve been flirting with you for three years. Thanks for noticing.”

 

“U-hum, no. Or did you think… burping and leaving your socks around was going to really drive me wild?”

 

“Apparently something worked.” Tucker traced his finger along the hair on Specs’ stomach, but he nudged him away, ready to fight.

 

“Yeah, that was me. _I’ve_ been trying to flirt with you for months-”

 

“Really? You wanna explain that to me?”

 

“Glad to. Um, actually touching you, for starters.”

 

“You’ve been doing that for years, you oblivious little fuck. Do you know how much of a tease you are?”

 

“I’m just saying, I made it happen.” Specs concluded with a smug look. Tucker appreciated the return to their comfortable dynamic. Now instead of an annoying, self-righteous, clueless friend, he had an annoying, self-righteous, clueless lover. One thing was obvious: they’d both been wanting this for a while. Specs knew his motivations for waiting, but he didn’t fully understand Tucker’s. “Why did you wait?” He asked.

 

“I don’t know.” Tucker fell more serious. “You don’t have to come out for me.”

 

Specs put his hands behind his head, inviting Tucker to rest on his shoulder as a silent thank you for the consideration. A mild sense of panic struck him when he remembered the brief phone call with his father. “I sort of already did.”

 

“When?”

 

“Right before I came upstairs… I didn’t exactly give him a chance to respond though.” Specs said. Evidently he had something specific in mind when he came in, then.

 

“What about your family?” Tucker asked.

 

“You’re my family.”

 

Tucker squirmed at the thought that Specs decided to do that. For him. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to explain why it wasn’t worth it. But Specs seemed sure. Tucker laid his head on Specs’ chest. “I don’t think I’m douchey enough to replace your dad.”

 

“You’re sufficiently douchey, but let’s end comparisons to my father there, shall we?”

 

Years of tension, built between their close quarters and frustrated arguments, seemed to come to resolution. There would still be fights. Those were the lifeblood of their sexual chemistry. Tucker would still steamroll his decisions over anyone who disagreed with him, Specs would still be easily flustered by Tucker’s lack of propriety, and they would still turn the most inconsequential of things into a competition. Only now, they had a mutually satisfying arena in which to work out their kinks, so to speak. If they were anything, they were comfortable together. The routines, the habits, even the disagreements gave each other a sense of belonging- they weren’t normally participating members of society, after all, so they needed to construct one of their own. One in which they would continue to be long-suffering civil servants under the unconventional guidance of a certain ghostly benefactor, chasing shadows, probably going with little respect from those they tried to help, but ultimately together, now even more so than ever. If it meant more nights like this, they could definitely get used to it.

 

“Hey Tucker.” Specs asked when he sensed Tucker was about to doze off.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You don’t think...Elise is _always_ around, right?”

 

“I think she knows to give us some privacy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well here we have it. Hope this chapter was worth the wait. And if it seems abrupt, never fear, an epilogue is on the way!


	25. Bonus Track: Sexual Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Join Specs and Tucker on one last whimsical adventure.

April 2008

 

"I _hate_ you." Specs said, and oh how he did. Sure, he could take some of the blame. He was the one who wanted to take the job in the first place. An aggressive psychic force reigning in holy terror over a corporate campus on the east end of Calabasas had driven four separate security guards to quit in the span of two months. Witnesses reported everything from violent poltergeists to the distinct image of a shadowy figure rushing down on them in the halls. Specs insisted they check it out after the property manager, a friend of Tucker's for some bizarre reason or another, had given them a call. He was still searching for 'the big one.' The case to go viral. Tucker had made a New Year's resolution that this year they would stay out of danger, relax, maybe enjoy a little time together before throwing their lives on the line again. God knew they'd had enough excitment last year. But a commitment to Specs meant getting dragged along as he skipped to the edge of danger like a lemming.

 

So now here they were, nothing but a metal swing door between them and whatever was pushing on the other side. Specs and Tucker leaned all their weight against the door trying to keep it from breaking through. Every few seconds the being would draw back and slam against the door, shoving them both forward, but so far it hadn't managed to break through. They couldn't hold it forever.

 

"I didn't even want to come here." Tucker reminded Specs as he readjusted his footing to brace for another blow.

 

"Yeah. Ok. But I’m not the one who antagonized the demon."

 

"I didn’t _antagonize_ it."

 

"You basically gave it a raspberry." Specs took one hand off the door to push his glasses up his nose, channeling all his judgemental body language into one moment between pushes from the door. Tucker's exact words to the shadow at the end of the hall had been 'Yeah, and?' when it first appeared. And he accused Specs of being the reckless one.

 

"It was being a dick."

 

"Well it is a demon."

 

"I’m sure we’ll be fi- fuck." Tucker slid forward from one particularly firm shove on the other side of the door. He scrambled back against it to close the gap that had opened up.

 

"When we die a young and tragic death, you get to explain it to Elise." Specs said, a little smug.

"I don’t think we’re going where Elise is." Tucker said. "Isn’t that like, gay 101?"

 

"You know, despite how charming I find it when we’re not being attacked by a demon, maybe now isn’t the best time to be a smart ass?"

 

"It’s always the perfect time. Relax baby. Elise will take care of it. Right? Elise?"

 

Ah yes, they had their ringer; the calvary that swooped in every so often to protect them from the other side: Elise. It was like the pitch for a bad tv show. A gay couple and a friendly ghost join forces to battle the evil dead. Hijinks ensue. But that was essentially the arrangement. At first her presence had felt faint. Specs would notice a warm, white figure in the room with him when he stayed up late in Jack's study. Tucker could hear her just around the corners of their home. They insisted she move on, insisted she leave the Further and go to a better place, but she stayed around, as if there were more work for her to do. Eventually she began doing things to contact them more directly, like flipping the newspaper to a particular story, or pulling a book off the shelf. A few times they called Carl out to talk to her. She was the Charlie to their angels, finding cases from within the Further and directing them through disembodied contact to their next assignment. On one hand, it was reassuring to know they had someone fighting for them from within. On the other hand, this meant most of their jobs had gotten a lot more dangerous.

 

"I seriously hate you." Specs repeated. He could feel their defenses weakening. He had plans for the weekend. He wasn't really in the mood to die.

 

"You won’t be saying that later tonight."

 

"Oh ho ho, you are not getting laid tonight, buddy." Specs laughed ruefully.

 

"Yeah right." Tucker said. The pounding on the other side of the door had only gotten stronger, but this conversation required more of his attention. "Near death experiences always make you horny. Remember last week when you-"

 

"Shhh. Elise might-"

 

"Elise is an adult."

 

"I'm sure she doesn't want to hear about the part-ic-u-lars." Specs' voice bounced with every rattling shake of the door. Suddenly, with one last firm shove, the door burst open, sending them both to the floor. Specs instinctively put himself over Tucker to shield him, then waited for the inevitable. And waited. Finally he looked up. The door swung lazily back and forth in the frame, but there was no shadow beast closing in on them, just light flickering through the door from the flashlight he had dropped on the other side. They both sat up and sighed in relief.

 

"Told you." Tucker finally said.

 

"Oh, what exactly did you tell me?"

 

"That Elise would save us." Tucker stood up and offered a hand, but Specs picked himself up, dusting off the dirt from his pants, indignant.

 

"Oh right. Just like I told _you_ not to provoke it in the first place."

 

"Pretty sure it wouldn't have made a difference."

 

"Pretty sure it would."

 

"No, but..."

 

"I swear to god, do not say whatever." Specs hissed, pushing through the door to pick his flashlight back up. 'Whatever' was Tucker's way of saying an argument was so far beneath him he didn't even need to engage in it, even though he was usually the one to instigate it in the first place. One of many peeves he pet. They were still deep in the honeymoon phase, all things considered, but that only meant a 10% decrease in the venom with which they fought. The difference was primarily in the apology. Now arguments were settled in the bedroom- occasionally on the couch, if Specs was feeling adventurous. Tucker had lots of special ways of showing exactly how sorry he was about things. The last to end an argument but the first to ask forgiveness with his eyes. And Specs always forgave.

 

The past few months had been marked with many intense and clumsy encounters. After their first night together they had hardly made it through breakfast before running back to bed. The initial surprise of even being together had worn off, but even though they had been in and around every inch of each other so far, they still felt the same pang of excitement each time that meaningful eye contact was made, and they still had plenty to work on. Tucker was lazy and demanding and absolutely sweet in bed, and Specs, who’d never done this sort of thing for love, who prefered to give more than he asked for, was having trouble letting go and relaxing. But they were trying. Tucker tried to reciprocate. Specs tried to enjoy the occasional lazy morning in bed. Practice made perfect after all, and they were going to make it work, thank you very much. So practice they did.

 

Tucker idled along behind Specs, babying his hand-cam, which, as an extension of his hand, hadn't missed a beat of the action. Of course, that meant it had recorded the entire previous conversation, and they couldn't exactly upload that on Spectral Sightings. Considering this particular demon liked to hide in the shadows, the whole case didn't lend itself to clear evidence anyway. Instead Tucker pointed the camera at Specs and zoomed in as he walked away.

 

"You know," Tucker began. "Since we're all alone here..."

 

Tucker moved the camera up when Specs stopped walking, looking through the viewfinder as he traced the lens up his body and onto his face, where he saw Specs glaring at him over the brim of his glasses. "Tucker, I'm not going to have intercourse with you during an investigation."

 

"Fine. You killed the mood by calling it intercourse anyway."

 

"Besides, we still have work to do here, or did you forget the last ten minutes?"

 

"And that wasn't even what I was suggesting..." Tucker muttered, insulted. Specs took a cleansing breath. He knew exactly what Tucker was suggesting. If they weren't being stalked by an aggressive spirit in a maze of hallways and cubicles, he might take him up on the offer. Tucker could reduce a man of intellect and professioinal integrity into a whore with just the right tease of oral fixation. He was very persuasive.

 

"Didn't Elise...vanquish it already?" Tucker asked with a yawn.

 

Specs pointed his flashlight beam down the hall to a doorway, still wary. By all accounts they seemed to be in the clear. "We still need to know why it's here, what it wants... I mean, why a corporate building? Not usually a space with a lot of psychic energy."

 

"A graveyard of dead dreams and lost ambitions." Tucker meant it as a joke, but Specs paused and pulled out his sketchpad.

 

"Bend over."

 

"Now we're talking."

 

"No not-" Specs huffed and nudged Tucker down so he could use his back as a surface while he wrote. "Accumulations of negative energy, especially clustered from many different people, like, say the living employees who come here every day, could serve as a homing beacon for certain entities. Like um, like Elise said about some demonic entities, they aren't looking to replace good energy with bad, say, by invading the innocent world of a child, or through possession. Some just... feed on a negative energy. They're like vultures. And they'll be protective of their dinner once they've found it."

 

"So what, the demon is eating a buffet of dissapointment and doesn't like anyone getting in his way?"

 

"Essentially." Specs replied, still scribbling what would no doubt be the main bullet points of his next article. "Though, one thing is still bothering me..."

 

Tucker scoffed. "Sounds like something you'd write in middle school."

 

"From what I've read, this kind of demon normally appears in... groups."

 

"The allegory is a little heavy handed, don't you think?" Tucker called down the hall to the demon. Specs slapped a hand over his mouth.

 

" _Tucker_." He whispered harshly. Tucker pulled away, offended, but Specs kept a death grip on his shoulder. Tucker finally sensed that Specs had become absolutely still, holding his breath. He looked back to see Specs' eyeline directed over his head at the ceiling. Tucker felt his hair stand on end at the implication. He summoned the courage to stand up and slowly direct the light of his camera to the ceiling, where he saw black figures hanging down the entire length of the hallway like bats, their eyes gently blinking open. The figures were indistinct, like smoke. It was difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Tucker reached back and felt for Specs just to make sure he was still there.

 

"Babe."

 

"Yeah, I see them."

 

"Ok. So. Did you read to the part where they tell you how to get rid of them?" Tucker asked breathlessly.

 

"Nope." Specs nervously pushed his glasses up his nose. "But I can... deduce that they're repelled by positive energy."

 

"Oh great. We'll just jazz hands them away then." Tucker replied snidely. This caused the churning mass of entities to push toward them. He stumbled back a bit. "Ok ok. Positive. Jesus. What do we do, think happy thoughts?"

 

"It sounds stupid when you put it that way."

 

Tucker took a deep breath. He felt Specs' hand close around his. They both thought to remember Elise at the same time. Her company, whether on the job or in the quiet hours of the night, standing sentinel over them, always offered a strange sense of comfort. It hardly compared to having her alive, but she had chosen to stay around a little longer, acting saviour to the people they vowed to protect. With such a powerful ally, it was easy to be brave. Eventually the training wheels would come off, and her apprentices would be on their own. For now, though, they were happy to sense her standing with them. Slowly, the black figures on the ceiling skulked away, back into the darkness and out of the hall.

 

Tucker let out a shakey breath which slowly evolved into a chuckle. "We defeated them with the power-"

 

"Tucker."

 

"-of love."

 

"Oh god."

 

An hour later they were dragging themselves to bed. The conclusion was that they had spooked the flock of demons from their feeding spot, but they could return at any time. Specs left a precription for the building manager to either promote a more positive work environment or raze the enitre building to the ground, Tucker's vote being on the latter, unless they decided to turn the building into a clown college. It wasn't 'the big one' but Specs had gotten enough material for a two part article, easily, with visual aids. He was already unpacking his sketchpad when they went into the bedroom.

 

Tucker made a cursory pass through his evening routine. A year ago he would have fallen into bed face first, fully clothed, and slept like that just fine. But now Specs had him doing strange things, like brushing his teeth _before_ sleeping, and moisturizing. He pretended to resent it, but all of Specs' rules and expectations and weird little hand towels had improved his quality of life immensely. Not to mention he was getting laid. Not much to complain about there. This had been the habit for months now. After their first night together, Tucker almost expected Specs to call the whole thing off. But the next night he crawled into bed with him again. And then the next, and the next, until finally Tucker stopped being surprised. They never really had 'the talk' about what they were. Just as the friendship that came before, their new relationship status developed organically, like it was so obvious it didn't need to be addressed.

 

There was one night back in February when Specs came to bed late after doing their taxes, where he dropped a bit of a bombshell, saying, "Did you know we could save almost seven hundred dollars if we filed our taxes together?"

 

"That has to be the least romantic way to propose to someone." Tucker had replied. The implication, of course, was not only that Specs had thought of marrying him, but that he went through the trouble of filling out another entire set of tax forms just to explore the hypothetical scenario. To be fair, that was the sort of thing Specs would find romantic. It was no coincidence that tax season lined up with Valentines Day. Specs insisted he was not proposing, but when he did, Tucker would know. Not _if_ he did- when. That one left Tucker glowing for months.

 

Not that either of them were in a hurry. They had already settled into a pattern of marital monotony that rivaled couples on their golden anniversary. Specs had Tucker's coffee waiting for him every morning. They bickered about who left what mess where (Tucker did, everywhere, every time.) They watched the same movies they always had while eating popcorn in bed- because they were adults. Tonight it was _Demons_ by Bava, and neither of them acknowledged the irony. Specs sat cross legged in the middle of the bed, still sketching the teeming mass of ceiling-demons they had encountered, while Tucker massaged his shoulders, a gesture that would have been better appreciated if he didn't keep stopping to pluck gray hairs out of Specs' head.

 

"Do you mind?" Specs growled.

 

"Happy thoughts, Kowalski." Tucker pat him on the top of the head. He hadn't eliminated his repetoire of nicknames since they got together, though he had added a handful of new ones, many of which featured exclusively in bed. Tucker pulled Specs' undershirt collar away from his neck and nuzzled against him.

 

"I have to finish this before I forget." Specs said. Tucker pulled back, a little rebuffed. Specs always took some time to defrost and relax when they were alone. In public and on the job he remained alert to their appearance, still looking over his shoulder like someone was watching. PDA made him uncomfortable. Specs knew it bothered Tucker everytime he pulled away his hand, but Tucker never complained, because Tucker had watched him call his parents every night for the first few months, only to be ignored, and Tucker had known one night, when Specs joined him in bed well past midnight, that he had finally given up trying. Tucker had Specs to thank for mending years of pain. He still mourned what he lost, and what he never had to begin with. Their constant companionship had become a sweet reassurance. So if Specs needed time, time he would be given. He _had_ put his arm around Tucker in public for the first time last week while they waited in line at Chipotle, and that had been pretty nice.

 

Specs laid his pencil down and picked it up a few times, chewed on the end, put it back down again, then finally seemed to settle. Nothing would ever be good enough, of course, but he had improved. He finally let go of getting his degree. After seven years of trying, it occurred to him that he already had his dream job. School had always been an excuse to dwell in arrested development. Now he had nothing but Spectral Sightings to work toward, and all those books he swore he would write. He hadn't told Tucker yet, but the gears were turning, leading him to vague ideas of writing about Elise. After many long nights chewing his way through her old case files, journals and videos, it suddenly struck him that she was his story. One day his life might be interesting enough to warrant a book, but until then he took it as his solemn duty to tell the world about her adventures. The last chapter would be theirs.

 

Specs let himself relax back against Tucker, who himself was propped against the headboard. Tucker warmed at the invitation. He traced his fingers up and down Specs' arms while they watched the movie, occasionally breaking their silence to laugh at the macabre humor of it all or to make idle chat. Tucker's touches became more sensual as he asked nonverbally for more. Specs could feel his breathing shift. Tucker kissed him on the neck every so often, finally finding his way to Specs' shoulder, where he paused to rub a small white scar. That one had been his fault. He'd never meant to hurt him, but in the moment, well, a playful bite had gotten a bit too rough. Specs had a way of making his mind go elsewhere.

 

"Sorry." Tucker repeated.

 

"It's ok." Specs said. Tucker knew that tone of voice. It was downshifted a few gears from his usual high speed. Yes, this was Specs at his most relaxed. The perfect time to pounce. He let his hands wander down to Specs' thighs and rubbed them gently. "Hmmm." Specs hummed.

 

Tucker smiled with pride. In the dark, the world far away, they could be something else. Most people might not even guess they were lovers, the way they carried on in every other context, but at night the dynamic shifted. Tucker paused the movie to make his intentions clear. Specs rolled over to face him, and Tucker tugged him closer by the chin for a kiss. He pulled Specs' glasses off. That meant serious business. Specs climbed onto his lap, straddling Tucker while he kissed him, pulling back every so often to make eye contact. After so many years of wanting, a look of lust from Specs always left Tucker an absolute mess. He rolled up on his knees, lifting Specs and laying him back on the bed, a move that left Specs smiling at their lack of coordination. They were hardly graceful, but this sort of hamfisted love making suited them both just fine.

 

Specs tried to take control of the situation a few times, but Tucker chided him, demanding he lay back and relax. He worked Specs out of his shirt, then kissed him down the side, which always made Specs twitch in a mixture of pleasure and ticklishness.

 

“Do you want-” Specs paused to draw some oxygen into his quickly melting mind. “Me to do anything for you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Just this?”

 

“Just this.” Tucker muttered against his skin. Specs closed his eyes and tilted his head back. Tucker doing the work was a rare treat. He needed every ounce of self-control he could muster to make the moment last. Tucker still had a mean streak though- the teasing never ended, not in conversation, not in bed. He made good on his offer from earlier in the night, but he dragged it out, pulling Specs to edge a few times then backing off, just to enjoy the frustrated reaction it got, until he finally took pity when Specs moaned a genuine “please.”

 

Specs sat awake reliving the moment a few times after Tucker had rolled to his side of the bed and passed out. The blush still hadn’t left his face. He never expected to have it so good, not after all those lonely nights, convincing himself that his work would isolate him forever. By some miracle Specs had found someone as weird as himself, though. He looked over at the snoring lump next to him. That was his.

 

Just as Specs was about to turn off the light for bed, he heard the door to Jack’s study creak open down the hall. Their house carried sounds, moving and breathing like a living soul, to the point where he couldn’t tell where the wind stopped and paranormal causes began. Specs craned his ear to the sound. Elise haunted around the study and the reading room most often. No doubt memories of Jack lingered heaviest there. Specs decided to climb out of bed to meet her for the evening. He slipped into his robe and padded down the hallway, sketchbook in hand, and entered the study. The room had doubled in capacity since he moved in and added his books and case files. The result was exactly the sort of organized chaos that permeated most aspects of his life. It made sense to him, at least, which was exactly why he could tell some things had been moved around since his last visit. Specs considered the book that had been left open on the end table by his chair.

 

“Elise?” He asked casually, flipping the cover over to read the title: ‘Reason and the Paranormal.’ He already read that one. Why was it his homework? “Thanks for your help tonight.”

 

Specs slumped into his armchair, where he often sat and spoke to the empty room. He nudged his glasses down his nose so he could read the page Elise had opened the book to. The appendix. Not very helpful. His concentration suddenly broke when he heard another book fall off the desk behind him.

 

Tucker found him a few hours later when he came in, still half sleepwalking, looking for antacid. Specs was perched at the desk, in robe and slippers, with a soup bowl of coffee next to him. Not a mug. A bowl. Tucker rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

 

“Help me.” He groaned.

 

Specs didn’t turn around. “Sorry, I haven’t achieved beatification yet. I’m a paranormal investigator, not a miracle worker.”

 

“Maybe the last pint of ice cream was a bad idea.”

 

“Not to mention the first one.” Specs swiveled around in his chair. "Elise is trying to tell us something."

 

"About my stomach?"

 

"No, come look. She opened the phone book to this page." Specs said. "I think she wants us to help someone with the name Rodriguez."

 

Tucker walked up and leaned over Specs' shoulder to look at the phone book. "Oh. Yup. That narrows it down. Not a lot of Rodriguezes in Southern California. Thanks Elise."

 

"This might be a clue." Specs drummed his fingers on the open pages of 'Reason and the Paranormal.' "It's an abbreveation of a very complicated argument vis a vis rational skepticism and the paranormal that attempts to resolve their aparent disparity-"

 

"Allison."

 

"Excuse me?"

 

Tucker reached his arm around Specs and tapped the appendix on the page. "The name Allison is underlined. Allison Rodriguez."

 

"Oh guess that's... plausible."

 

"We'll call Carl in the morning.” Tucker said through a yawn, releasing his stretched arms down to hug Specs from behind. "Come back to bed."

 

Specs looked at his project thoughtfully one more time. It could be nothing. It could also be important. For all Tucker's insistance that he did it for the fame, and for Specs' obsession with landing on the bestseller's list one, they were, in Specs' own words, working to help other people, first and foremost. Neither snow nor rain nor gloom of haunted house. Every case could be the big one, and every case could be the last, but they were compelled, each in their own way but fundamentally together, to do something about what evil lurked in the closets of man. Their own personal saviour had taught them as much, and her apprentices didn't intend to let her down. They couldn't know how many more doors would be slammed in their face (cold calls hadn't gotten any easier over the years, after all), and they couldn't know quite what fresh hell lay before them, but they lived in confidence that they were doing the right thing- Tucker with his overzealous boy scout, Specs with his persistently bossy man-child, Elise's voice in the back of their minds reminding them on a loop to play nice.

 

"I miss her." Specs finally sighed.

 

"Yeah." Tucker began to shuffle toward the door. He paused, considered the room one more time as if saying goodnight to Elise, then held out his hand. "C'mon."

 

Specs snapped off the desk lamp and joined him.

 

"Oh, but could you get me some Tums first?"

 

"We're out, I'd have to go to the store."

 

"Yeah."

 

"...Fine."

 

"The berry kind."

 

"Yes dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it. Roll credits. Cue "Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now."
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed the fic. I feel like I spent the last six months carrying these two in the back of my mind at all times. It was an absolute pleasure to write characters who already had a natural comedic chemistry. I have to force myself not to think about a sequel. But I think this stands pretty well on its own. Now onto different things.
> 
> As a little bonus, I made a Spotify list of the eponyous "Tracklist" for you all.  
> https://open.spotify.com/user/theimpressario/playlist/2LvKX1spW2aJTEHy6BstDN


End file.
